L  3s!  M 


\ 


Vacation  Days  in  Europe 


FORDYGE 


' 


VACATION  DAYS 


IN 


EUROPE 


NOTES  OF  A  TRIP  ABROAD 

BY 
EMMA  J.  FORDYCE 


Republican  Printing  Company 

Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa 

1904 


\ 


HENRY  MORSE  STEPHEN* 


FOREWORD 

The  printing  of  these  hastily  written  letters, 
through  the  generosity  of  The  Daily  Republican  is  not 
because  of  any  idea  that  the  world  is  hungry  for  new 
books. 

It  is  an  earnest  effort  to  make  the  friends  of  the 
winner  the  host  of  friends  of  those  friends,  and  all 
their  helpers,  realize  what  heart -felt  pleasure  they 
have  given  by  their  unselfish  kindness.  May  that 
effort  succeed.  E.  J.  F 


ENROUTE  TO  THE  SEA 

June  22,  1903. 

The  second  Republican  Contest  is  ended  and, 
thanks  to  the  generous  hearts  and  work  of  our  friends 
and  our  friends'  friends,  our  trip  to  Europe  is  be- 
gun. 

At  the  pretty  little  town  of  Manchester  we  are  to 
take  our  sleeper  for  Chicago,  and  toward  that  place 
we  go,  on  the  Illinois  Central,  over  a  country  water- 
soaked  and,  in  many  places,  water-covered.  It  is 
beautifully  green,  but  it  looks  very  strange  to  see 
Iowa  corn,  whole  fields  of  it,  not  more  than  four 
inches  high,  so  late  in  the  year. 

Arrived  at  Manchester,  past  fields  of  drowned  corn, 
we  wait  for  our  train  for  Chicago,  and  as  we  walk 
out  to  see  and  thank  Conductor  Marvin  for  his  help 
to  us,  we  realize  what  a  beauitiful  little  city  Manches- 
ter is  with  its  wide  streets,  comfortable  houses  sur- 
rounded by  green,  its  fine  trees  and  lovely  roses.  Mr. 
Marvin  works,  in  the  dusk,  amongst  his  roses  and 
gives  us  some  most  beautiful  and  fragrant  ones  as  we 
say  "g:ood-bye"  and  return  to  our  station  acros»  a 
river  as  smooth  as  a  mirror,  and  pink,  gold  and  rose 
with  the  sunset.  A  sweet-faced  old  lady  in  the  station 
tells  us  how  she  cared  for  the  Union  wounded  all 
through  the  dreadful  years  of  '61,  '62,  '63  and  '64  and 
how,  after  the  battle  of  Gettysburg  she  helped  doc- 
tors amputate  the  limbs  and  probe  the  wounds  of 
men  who  had  lain  in  the  drenching  rain  and  hot  sun 
of  three  summer  days,  only  to  face  the  operating 
table  without  ajiy  anaesthetic  to  deaden-  their  dread- 
ful pain.  All  the  time  she  talks,  a  little  lad  runs  about 
the  station  crowing  happily  to  himself,  all  unconscious 
of  the  awful  suffering  through  which  he  entered  into 
his  heritage  of  a  great  and  united  country. 

The  train  rushes  in  out  of  the  black  darkness,  peo- 
ple settle  into  their  sleeping  berths  after  untold  and 
remarkable  gymnastics  and  the  morning  sun  shines 


down  upon  us  in  dirty,  noisy  Chicago.  Same  old 
place!  Same  "good-a-banan"  man  in  great  numbers! 
Same  old  cabman  who  v  charges  50c  where  he  would 
nsttitfet  2&$,  'sgme  old  rushing  crowds,  and 
looking  *mte:rk,,*same  many-tongued  babel. 
.  .  .Threta-t^Q(>px  m;  s.ees>us  settled  in  "Car  4"  of  a 
.\rh-tn-*  I  o£  I  eleVefc  I  m£gttificeiit  sleepers  of  the  Grand 
TrunR  'afteY  a*  figlit*  With"  the  custom's  officer  who 
"rumpled"  our  belongings  when  we  didn't  have  time 
to  repack  them,  and  acted  like  a  salaried  fiend  gen- 
erally, then  apologized  to  us  after  we  had  said  a  few 
direct  words.  Illinois  corn  was  drowned  too,  Indiana's 
was  a  little  better,  Michigan's  crops  still  better  and 
Canada  was  as  green  as  a  garden,  the  old  orchards, 
the  stake  and  rider  fences,  the  evergreens  all  bathed 
in  the  amber  light  of  a  clear  sunset.  Supper  in  the 
diner  over,  where  the  little  French  lady  who  couldn't 
speak  a  word  of  English  and  who  poured  an  imagin- 
ary something,  with  a  hand  glittering  with  rings, 
into  her  cup  with  the  tragic  air  of  a  Lady  Macbeth 
and  gazed  with  darkly  rolling  and  imploring  eyes  at 
her  bewildered  waiter  who  was  helped  out  by  a  friend- 
ly co- worker  with  "Why,  slhuah,  she  wants  some  hot 
water  in  her  tea!"  we  came  back  to  our  seat  only  to 
greet  the  stalwart  form  and  smiling  face  of  David 
Johnson,  our  old  Cedar  Rapids  friend,  who  told  us 
lot  about  the  way  Italians  behave  in  constructing  road 
beds  for  railroads.  More  gymnastics  and  more  grind- 
ing of  car  wheels,  the  beating  of  rain  on  the  window 
panes,  the  hearing  one  girl  in  the  next  section  say, 
"Yes,  but  we  must  get  up  at  six  Toronto  time 
which  means  five  by  our  watches,  you  goose, 
because  we  haven't  changed  them  the  hour  yet," 
then  semi-unconisciousnes  until  the  gray  dawn 
of  a  rainy  morning  brought  us  to  Toronto.  A 
drive  plast  the  Queen's  hotel,  King  Edward's 
hotel,  the  Sovereign  Bank  brought  us  to  The 
Iroquois  where  the  candelabra  are  decorated  with 
the  Union  Jack  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  the 
waitresses  polish  the  steel  table  knives  at  a  little  side 
serving  table  near  you  and  put  them  into  a  little  por- 
celain kettle,  where  the  street  car  conductor  presents 
a  little  iron  box  with  a  jug-like  handle  and  you  drop 
your  own  nickle  in  its  slot.  The  M.  P.  who  eats  din- 
ner at  our  table  tells  us  that  Mr.  Gamey,  the  speaker, 
is  '.to  defend  himself  from  charge  of  bribery  ait  the  3 
p.  m.  sitting  of  Parliament  and  tells  us  to  use  his 
name  to  gain  admission  to  the  session. 


The  parliament  houses  are  beautiful  graystone,  ivy 
covered  buildings  and  fine  looking  men  filled  the  ses- 
sions room,  where  business  was  carried  on  with  much 
dignity  and  decorum.  As  we  pass  a  fine  ivy-covered 
church  the  son  of  the  governor  general  of  Canada  en- 
ters to  be  married.  This  is  his  "busy  day."  He  is  of 
age,  inherits  his  fortune  of  $7,000,000  and  marries  today. 
He  is  a  fine  looking  young  fellow  and  his  bride  is 
most  lovely.  Toronto,  we  find,  is  wide  and  clean  in 
streets,  with  great  brick  houses,  ivy  grown,  and  hand- 
some squares  with  flowers  and  carpet-like  green  sod. 
Four  p.  m.  sees  us  off  for  Montreal  on  the  City  of 
Toronto,  a  splendid,  clean,  lake  boat  which  carries, 
among  other  things,  seven  newly  married  couples  in 
varying  stages  of  idiocy  resulting  from  bliss  accord- 
ing to  temperament  and  good-breeding.  The  finest 
couple  were  objects  of  amused  interest  even  to  the 
best  disposition,  because  of  the  evident  distress  of  the 
handsome  groom  when  rice  kept  falling  from  all  sorts 
of  unexpected  parts  of  his  anatomy. 


In  half  an  hour  Lake  Ontario  was  doing  its  worst 
in  the  way  of  performing  unpleasant  up  and  down  and 
sideways  evolutions  and  all  night  long  it  tossed  and 
rain  fell.  Morning  came  with  its  gray-blue  mist  and 
the  Thousand  Islands  was  dimmed,  the  far  shores  ob- 
scured and  the  mighty  St.  Lawrence  seemed  like  a 
shoreless  ocean.  What  a  magnificent  river!  What  ev- 
erchanging  beauty  and  grandeur!  All  day  until  the 
rapids  were  reached,  the  rain  fell.  Six  o'clock  found 
us  with  the  roar  of  the  Lachine  Rapids  in  our  ears  and 
the  rocking,  dropping  boat  seemingly  falling  from 
under  us. 


Then  we  swept  under  the  magnificent  two  mile 
long  Victoria  bridge  and  the  bus  driver  of  The  Queen's 
hotel  claimed  us  for  his  own.  Over  the  debris  of  street 
paving,  through  deep  pools  of  black  mud,  into  the 
many  ragged  holes  of  the  asphalt  we  drove  at  a  mad 
gallop  until,  in  a  steep  side  hill,  the  bus  was  stopped 
and  the  big  conductor  on  the  back  steps  yelled 
"Fares!"  at  us  in  a  voice  calculated  to  startle  a  na- 
tion. One  of  the  seven  grooms  remarked  to  us  "sotto 
voce,"  "I  didn't  expect  to  take  my  wife  up  town 
through  a  run-a-way  and  hold  up."  Fares  paid,  the 
resumed  gallop  brought  us  to  The  Queen's,  its  tea  and 
its  heart-breaking  music,  its  marble  stairs  and  its  old 


elevator  with  big  wooden  doors  and  the  speed  of  the 
turtle  with  the  slowest  record. 

Ten  o'clock  found  the  Mr.  Pratt  party  seeing  the 
quaint  things  of  Montreal,  the  little  old  house  near 
the  water  front  where  Lavalle  lived,  the  market  with 
its  little  vegetable  carts  and  its  chatter  of  French  with 
its  accompanying  violent  gesticulation,  with  the  head 
of  cabbage,  the  beet,  or  the  turnip  in  dispute,  held  in 
the  tightly-clenched  hand,  the  modern  grays-tone 
building  where  stood  the  gate  to  the  fort  through 
which  the  British  marched  and  ended  French  rule  for 
dered  by  mists,  may  be  seen;  the  crematory  with  its 
Byzantine  decorations,  the  chapel  with  its  lovely 
stained  glass,  its  exquisite  carvings,  lovely  Mount 
Royal  from  which  the  broad  wide-spreading  valley  of 
the  St.  Lawrence,  the  distant  Green  Mountains,  the 
whole  100  miles  of  beautifully  green  country,  blue  bor- 
dered by  mists,  may  be  seen,  the  crematory  with  Its 
lovely  flowers,  the  great  Catholic  nunneries,  hospitals, 
schools  showing  the  wealth  of  the  250,000  Catholics 
who  belong  to  Montreal.  Ten  o'clock  and  the  hustle, 
rush  and  flaring  lights  of  the  docks  told  that  the 
Dominion  was  nearly  ready  to  sail.  All  night  until  4 
a.  m.  the  rattle  and  roar  of  loading  went  on.  This 
morning  sees  us  on  our  way  to  Quebec  on  the  blue 
grreen  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence  with  its  green,  far 
distant  shores  and  its  majestic  sweep.  Monday  morn- 
ing sees  us  "on  the  deep"  and  its  miseries  claim  us. 

QUEBEC 

Quebec,  June  27. — Between  showers,  at  9:30  p.  m., 
through  dreadfully  muddy  streets,  we  went  down  to 
the  Dominion  dock.  Here  was  the  wildest  sort  of  con- 
fusion, hansoms,  five-wheelers,  drays,  driving  up, 
winches  banging  and  groaning  loading  a  train  load  of 
perishable  freight  that  had  arrived  at  the  last  moment, 
others  loading  hay  and  baggage.  Sleep  was  out  of  the 
question  until  3  a.  m.  when  we  swung  out  into  the 
stream  and  started  for  Quebec. 

Morning  showed  that  the  Dominion  was  about  400 
feet  long,  very  wide,  twin  screw,  very  white  and  gold, 
and  clean.  Having  studied  economy  of  space  in  the  dis- 
posing of  bagg-age,  and  learned  the  art  of  hanging  17 
things  on  one  hook,  we  all  went  to  view  the  majestic 
St.  Lawrence  running  blue  and  clear  for  its  900  or  more 
miles  to  the  sea;  with  its  banks  a  constant  panorama 


of  hills,  (growing  larger  and  larger  as  the  mouth  was 
neared)  and  little  fishing  villages  with  their  feet  in  the 
water;  toward  night  the  river  widened  until  we  could 
see  but  one  shore  at  a  time.  At  2:30  Quebec  showed  its 
towering  rock  upon  which  its  citadel  is  built  and,  as 
we  passed,  the  French  gentleman  at  our  right  showed 
us  the  path  up  which  the  soldiers  climbed  to  capture 
it  and  the  spot  where  Montcalm  fell.  Most  quaint  and 
beautiful  did  the  old  city  show  from  the  river  with  its 
lower  town  and  its  towering  citadel  land  Chateau 
Frontenac.  As  soon  as  we  landed,  we  rushed  for  a 
carriage  and  drove  straight  to  the  "lower  town"— the 
old  French  quarter  with  its  narrow  streets  just  wide 
enough  to  allow  the  carriage  to  pass  and  one  footman 
to  walk  beside  and  its  peaked-roof  stone  or  brick 
houses.  Here  the  French  fought  the  Indians  for  an  em- 
pire which  their  profligate  kings  threw  away.  The  lit- 
tle two  story  house  in  which  Victoria's  father,  the 
Duke  of  Kent,  lived  while  Governor  General  of  Cana- 
da had,  stretched  from  its  upper  windows,  a  Union 
Jack. 

Up  the  steep  streets  we  went  to  The  Basilica,  a 
reproduction,  in  the  interior,  of  St.  Peter's.  It  was 
very  effective  with  its  wide  space,  its  altar  over  which 
hung  the  great  golden  eagle  with  a  golden  world  in 
its  talons,  the  world  fire  red  from  the  light  of  the  red 
window  beside  it.  One  irreverent  American  murmur- 
ed his  greeting  to  the  American  eagle  as  he  looked  at 
it. 

Here,  in  this  old  church,  devout  hearts  have 
brought  their  cares  since  1630.  Here,  too,  is  Van 
Dyke's  "Christ  on  the  Cross"  gazing-  down  with  tired 
eyes  on  the  throngs  who  gaze  up  to  Him.  The  pic- 
ture was  brought  from  Europe  to  escape  destruction 
during  the  French  Revolution.  The  devout  kneel  ev- 
erywhere in  the  church  and  say  their  beads  with  eyes 
fixed  on  the  "rubbering"  tourist. 

Out  again  and  up  to  the  Citadel.  Priests  and  sol- 
diers are  everywhere.  As  we  enter  the  grim  walls,  a 
soldier  with  one  of  those  ridiculous  little  round  hats 
with  a  strap  across  the  chin  and  the  most  vigorous 
of  English  accents,  takes  charge  of  us.  He  shows  us 
the  military  prison  with  its  little  slits  of  windows  18 
inches  long  and  4  inches  wide  through  the  thick  stone 
walls;  the  bare  barracks,  the  Grand  Battery;  and,  as 
we  turn  from  viewing  it,  the  whole  magnificent  pano- 
rama of  the  350  feet  elevation  bursts  upon  us.  The 


St.  Lawrence  is  a  wide  blue  ribbon  laid  down  the  mid- 
dle of  a  green  valley,  with  misty  blue  hills  on  its 
edges  and,  just  below  us,  lie  the  little  old  French 
houses  of  the  lower  town. 

We  go  down  and  see  the  monument  erected  to 
Montcalm  and  Wolfe,  stroll  up  Dufferin  Terrace  with 
its  splendid  view  of  the  St.  Lawrence.then  go  out  to  the 
old  Franciscan  Monastery  where,  in  the  ancient  gar- 
den, two  brown  dressed,  bare  footed  monks  hoe  away 
steadily,  not  stopping  to  view  the  lovely  valley  of  the 
St.  Charles  which  lies  so  inviting  and  fair  below.  The 
Plains  of  Abraham  must  be  walked  on  so  the  foot  may 
touch  "real  history."  Now  comes  the  rain  again  and 
we  race  for  the  dock  in  a  dust  storm  that  flutters  the 
gowns  of  the  fat  priests  who  hold  fast  therr  shovel 
hats.  Storm  over,  we  go  up  to  the  Chateau  Fron- 
tenac  for  table  d'hote  dinner.  A  beautiful  place  it  is, 
magnificent,  artistic,  with  its  soft  velvet  carpets,  its 
flowers,  its  noiseless  attendants,  its  orchestras. 

Dinner  over,  we  stroll  through  the  beautiful  rooms, 
look  out  the  windows  at  the  splendid  views  down  the 
river,  then  go  shopping,  with  pleasant  results.  Morn- 
ing finds  us  still  going  down  the  St.  Lawrence  which 
grows  wider  and  wider,  twenty  miles,  twenty-five 
miles,  thirty  miles,  fifty  miles  at  the  mouth;  our  pilot 
leaves  us  with  cheers  from  the  passengers,  and  we 
have  now  no  link  to  connect  us  with  the  land. 

Now  begin  rain,  fog,  mist,  that  awful  ground 
swell  of  the  sea  which  heaps  up  like  molten  steel  to 
the  horizon's  rim  which  seems  so  definite  that  one 
feels  that  a  foot  over  it  is  "off  the  earth."  Here  our 
troubles  begin  and  sea  sickness  lays  its  awful  grip 
upon  us  for  ten  days.  One  day  we  stand  up  dizzily  to 
look  at  an  iceberg  which  floats,  all  glistening  and 
white,  in  a  blue,  blue  sea;  another,  to  look  at  a  whale; 
another  to  see  a  porpoise.  One  evening,  the  end  of  the 
only  beautiful  day  we  have,  we  sit  in  the  swaying 
chair  and  hold  up  our  head  with  one  hand,  while  we 
listen  to  the  speeches  of  an  Englishman,  a  Canadian, 
an  American,  Mr.  W.  A.  Pratt,  on  Fourth  of  July.  The 
captain  kindly  carried  the  American  flag  on  the  main 
mast  all  day  and  fired  a  salute  in  the  morning  and 
some  fire  works  in  the  evening.  Two  nights  the  fog 
was  so  thick  The  Dominion  "lay  to"  until  morning 
and  one  night  she  backed  out  of  the  ice.  Being  only 
about  400  feet  long,  the  vessel  "bounced"  badly  in  a 
sea  and  as  we  had  head  winds  during  the  entire  voy- 

10 


age,  we  had  plenty  of  "dead  swell"  and  "bounce." 
Fog,  rain  and  mist  added  their  mite  to  make  every 
passenger  hail  the  shores  of  "old  Ireland"  with  joy 
Monday  morning-.  Most  beautiful  they  were  through 
the  gray  mist.  The  day  cleared,  the  blue  Irish  Sea 
lay  like  a  mirror,  every  one  "chirked  up"  and  was  gay. 
All  day  long  sea  and  shore  showed  their  beauty  and 
at  night,  a  full  moon  added  its  silver  to  the  water. 
Groups  sat  and  sang  everywhere.  Even  Mr.  Grier's 
anecdote  of  the  sea  sick  man  by  the  ship  rail  who  saw 
a  bandana  dropped  by  a  passenger  near,  fall,  and  ex- 
claimed, "There  goes  my  liver,"  excited  only  smiles 
instead  of  shudders. 

Four  o'clock  the  next  morning  saw  Liverpool  near 
and  everybody  crowded  out  on  deck  to  see  River  Dee 
join  the  Mercey  and  look  at  the  sands  where  "Mary 
went  to  call  the  cattle  home  and  never  home  came 
she."  Slowly  we  swung  into  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
.New  Brighton,  a  perfect  picture  of  "Spotless  Town", 
only  the  roofs  are  red  and  grass  green,  is  greeted  with 
a  cheer. 

Breakfast  over,  we  swing  alongside  the  largest 
floating  dock  in  the  world  and  fall  into  the  clutches  of 
the  Custom  House  officers  who  are  very  pleasant  and 
obliging.  Through  the  rain  we  make  for  the  Midland 
Station,  and,  as  we  alight  put  foot  on  "Old  England." 
The  land  for  us!  We  know  now  why  "There  is  no 
more  sea." 

ANTWERP 

Antwerp,  July  14. — Our  voyage  of  4,300  miles  by 
water  is  ended,  our  watches  have  been  set  ahead  from 
20  to  30  minutes  each  day,  a  proceeding  rather  discon- 
certing when  the  rising  hour  is  7  a.  m.  until  we  are 
now  5  hours  fast.  At  noon  as  it  is  now  here,  Cedar 
Rapids  is  just  blowing  its  7  a.  m.  whistles. 

We  go  direct  to  London  but  as  we  are  not  through 
there  and  must  go  back  later,  it  may  all  be  left  to  one 
telling. 

The  entire  Pratt  party  with  enough  red  labels  on 
the  baggage  to  sink  a  ship,  is  put  into  large  bmsses  and 
threads  its  way  through  the  crowded  narrow  streets 
to  the  station  and  a  wild  run  of  an  hour,  sometimes  at 
the  rate  of  70  miles  per  hour  takes  us  to  Harwich.  The 
train  is  made  up  of  cars  not  so  large  as  a  street  car, 
divided  into  sections  that  do  not  communicate  and 

11 


have  side  doors,  and  containing  two  seats  facing  each 
other,  two  racks,  and  that  is  all.  Our  car,  being  a  tour- 
ist, has  seats  all  around  the  sides,  a  table  with  long 
"leaves"  dropped  down,  running  through  the  middle. 
The  engine  looks  only  half  grown  up  and  has  only  a 
little  hood  over  the  machinery  and  no  protection  at  all 
for  engineer  and  fireman.  The  "guard"  collects  your 
tickets  before  you  start,  the  door  is  slammed  and  no 
more  officials  or  trainmen  of  any  kind  do  you  see  until 
you  reach  your  journey's  end.  The  "guard"  doesn't  go 
with  the  train  but  meets  it  at  the  station.  No  water 
to  drink,  no  fruit  or  peanuts  for  anyone  to  buy.  The 
car  sways  and  bumps,  swings  and  everybody  does 
likewise  until  one  can't  tell  whether  the  blue-printed 
label  "Engaged",  pasted  up  by  the  guard  before  we 
started,  belongs  to  the  oldest  married  member  of  the 
party  over  which  it  was  pasted  originally,  or  to  her 
next  door  neighbor,  the  pretty  girl  from  St.  Louis. 

A  rush  through  the  darkness  at  Harwich  for  the 
little  steamer,  a  packing  like  sardines  into  small  state- 
rooms, a  night  full  of  impressions  that  the  berth  is 
sinking  into  great  depths  and  the  morning  sun  shows 
the  smooth,  silvery  waters  of  the  Scheldt  with  the  old 
Dutch  windmills  (for  this  part  of  Belgium  looks  very 
Dutch)  its  low  green  banks  with  their  yellow  stripes  of 
fields  of  ripening  wheat. 

The  river  narrows  presently  and  shipping  of  all 
kinds  crowds  into  view.  The  usual  Custom  Officer 
comes  on  and  says,  "Open"  in  a  stern  voice  and  the 
next  step  in  showing  one's  white  collar  to  all  Europe5 
because  he  travels,  is  over.  What  a  quaint  city! 
Roofs  with  the  corneris  cut  off,  red-tiled,  show  every- 
where. Everything  brick  or  stone.  Streets  cobble- 
stoned.  Here  comes  a  milk  cart  drawn  by  or  rather 
pushed  by  the  brown  dog  under  it  who  barks  madly 
because  he  doesn't  w&nt  to  work.  Madam,  the  owner, 
stalks  in  rear  with  bare  head  and  with  wooden  shoes 
clattering.  There  is  a  group  of  market  women,  bare 
headed,  wooden-shoed,  with  purchases  in  the  apron 
whose  gathered  end  is  held  in  the  clenched  hand.  Three 
women  push  a  big  cart  heavily  laden  with  clams.  Here 
is  the  public  square  with  its  beautiful  bronze  statue  of 
Rubens,  its  fragrant  flower  stalls  with  lillies,  carna- 
tions, roses  tended  by  bare  headed,  gossiping  women, 
and  on  the  other  side  one  front  of  the  beautiful  cath- 
dral.  The  hotel  reached  and  party  orders  received,  a 
rush  is  made  for  the  lace- shop  across  the  square.  Such 

13 


airy  loveliness  as  the  laces  showed  as  the  experienced 
girls  showed  "Madam!"  her  wares,  until  "Madam" 
spent  of  her  patrimony  for  buying,  almost  to  the  last 
sou.  Life  woven  into  beauty  is  what  she  carried  away. 
The  crooked,  narrow  little  side  streets  attract  us  with 
their  narrow  stone  side  walks,  2  feet  and  3  feet,  built 
up  against  the  stone  walls  and,  once  in  a  while,  an 
iron  pump  right  in  the  middle  of  it  around  which 
swarm  the  little  wooden-shoed  children,  playing  the 
tricks  of  children  the  world  over.  Here  is  the  store  of 
Josephine  Van  Winkle.  It  is  about  10x12  feet  and 
contains  the  Van  Winkle  stock  of  underwear  and  hos- 
iery, wrapped  in  brown  paper,  on  its  shelves.  Past  the 
window  goes  the  fish  seller  with  his  fish  buckets 
swinging  from  the  ends  of  a  harness  over  his  should- 
ers. Here  come  two  old  ladies  in  black  dress-up  bon- 
nets and  white  aprons  from  a  "tabak"  store.  A  fan- 
fare of  trumpets!  The  narrow  street  is  full  of  march- 
ing soldiers  in  blue  and  red  and  the  person  of  peace 
flattens  himself  against  the  wall  of  the  building  to 
let  them  tramp  past.  Three  or  four  hundred  little 
children  heads  bare,  wooden  shoes  clattering,  pour  out 
of  a  schoolhouse  across  the  8  foot  wide  street  from 
which  is  a  wholesale  house  which  has  in  front  of  it 
one  of  those  enormously  long,  low  drays  with  little, 
low  front  wheels  and  back  wheels  broad  tired  and 
twice  as  high.  The  big  brothers,  grandmothers,  uncles 
and  aunts  claim  the  children  and  go  clattering  away 
with  them.  One  o'clock  and  time  for  lunch.  Tea  20 
cents  a  cup!  That's  because  we  don't  and  won't  drink 
wine.  That  wine  must  be  paid  for  somehow.  "No  salt 
in  anything?"  Of  course  not.  Who  expects  salt  in  food 
except  Americans? 

Now  to  the  Cathedral.  Here  is  the  great  arched 
entrance  door  with  its  carved  figures  of  apostles  on 
the  arch.  A  pompous  old  man  swings  open  the  door 
and  the  white  coolness  of  the  great  building  is  ours. 
Seven  rows  of  magnificent  fluted  marble  columns,  18 
feet  around,  mark  nave  and  aisles.  Above  the  high 
altar  glow  the  beautifully  light  soft  colors  of  Ru- 
bens' "Assumption"  with  ite  exquisite  floating  figures. 
From  the  transepts  look  down  "The  Ascent  of  the 
Cross"  and  the  "Descent  from  the  Cross."  Both  are 
lovely  but  so  very  different,  showing  the  effect  of  Ru- 
bens' art  training. 

Near  the  side  door  is  "The  Marriage  of  Cana  in 
Galilee."  It  is  beautiful  and  remarkable  in  that  its 

13 


colors  have  not  faded  at  all  nor  been  retouched  though 
it  was  done  337  years  ago. 

Near  the  first  pillar  on  the  right  hangs  Da  Vinci's 
exquisite  "Head  of  Christ"  with  its  sorrowful  eyes 
following  you  wherever  you  go.  It  is  on  marble  and 
shows  no  trace  of  brush  mark.  The  lecturer  talks 
on,  the  crowd  of  tourists  peers  about  but  the  majesty 
of  the  great  church  and  the  beauty  of  that  sad  face 
claim  one  and  he  hears  and  sees  nothing  else  until 
with  a  start,  he  realizes  that  it  is  time  to  leave  beau- 
tiful quaint  Antwerp  for  gay  Brussels. 

BRUSSELS 

Brussels,  July  17.— 'Antwerp  Is  a  contrast  of  ancient 
and  modern;  old,  old  buildings  in  which  the  quaintly 
dressed  old  lady  made  ice  cream  in  an  American  freez- 
er, where  the  little  boy  in  wooden  shoes  chased  the 
American  electric  car. 

Brussels  is  modern,  airy,  clean,  gay,  beautiful.  The 
ride  from  Antwerp  to  Brussels  was  a  Joy.  Beautiful 
little  stripes  of  grain  fields  filled  with  the  glorious 
yellow  and  red  poppies,  fragrant  rose  gardens,  row 
after  row  of  the  high  trimmed  trees  one  sees  in  pic- 
tures of  Holland;  parks  with  beautiful  trees  many  of 
them  the  red  leaved  copper  beech;  women  working  in 
the  fields;  dogs  drawing  the  cart  or  wheelbarrow 
laden  with  vegetables.  All  the  hard  work  of  the 
farm  done  by  hand,  the  women  being  the  burden  bear- 
ers, seem  to  be  the  law  in  Belgium.  The  cherries, 
gooseberries  and  strawberries  are  immense  and  as  de- 
licious as  they  are  large.  The  potatoes  are  correspond- 
ingly tiny.  The  grain  fields  are  about  as  large  as  two 
city  lots  which  makes  the  country  look  like  a  grow- 
ing and  many  colored  checker  board.  The  cars  are 
larger  on  the  continent,  still  divided  into  compart- 
ments with  side  doors,  but  with  a  narrow  little  corri- 
dor down  one  side.  It  is  still  impossible  to  get  from 
one  car  to  another  except  from  the  station  platform. 
The  guard  still  locks  us  in  and  leaves  us  to  the  mer- 
cies of  the  engineer. 

We  go  to  our  hotel,  De  la  Empereur,  by  a  Brussels 
omnibus  which  is  a  large  street  car  on  very  broad 
tired  wheels  set  well  under  the  car  so  the  ends  bob 
gaily.  The  conductor  toots  on  a  horn,  the  driver 
makes  a  series  of  strange  and  wonderful  noises  and 
away  plunge  the  horses,  at  great  speed,  across  the 

14 


big  cobble  stones.  We  find  our  hotel  to  be  a  quaint 
old  house  built  around  a  court  in  which  is  an  old 
garden  with  statuary  and  fountain.  Our  rooms  look 
out  upon  the  garden  through  long  windows  which 
swing  open  like  two  doors.  We  regularly  lost  our  way 
at  each  meal  trying  to  find  the  dining  room  which 

was  away  across  the  garden.  If  all  the  Belgians 
cook  as  well  as  the  De  la  Empereur  cooks,  lucky  is 
Belgium.  Table  d'hote  dinner  of  seven  courses  over, 
everybody  goes  out  to  see  the  sights.  Brussels  is  said 
to  be  a  small  Paris  and  is  certainly  very  beautiful 
and  gay.  The  streets  were  brilliantly  lighted,  little 
tables  were  out  on  the  broad  walks  where  people  ate 
and  laughed;  orchestras  played  for  the  diners  in  res- 
taurant and  hotel;  people  in  fine  dress  filled  the 
streets,  laces  were  everywhere  in  the  store  windowB 
and  such  beautiful  ones! 

The    next   morning    saw    us    in     the     magnificent 

"Palais  de  Justice,"  the  largest  building  in  the  world. 
It  is  of  white  marble  mainly,  covers  six  acres,  and 
has  a  tower  over  400  feet  high.  Its  cost  was  $10,000,000 
and  its  architect  went  insane  four  years  before  it  was 
completed,  so  great  was  his  task.  The  halls  have  great 
panels  of  Italian  marble  which  are  marked  as  though 
a  tree  trunk  were  drawn  in  the  middle  of  each. 
The  Supreme  Court  room  is  in  black  and  gray  marble 
with  all  the  ceiling  covered  with  solid  brass  decora- 
tions. The  criminal  court  is  in  black  and  green  mar- 
ble. 

The  brisk  old  lady  in  charge  showed  us  out  upon  a 
balcony  and  all  Brussels  lay  below  us  with  its  red  tiled 
roofs  and  its  blue  dim  hills  shutting  it  in.  Of  Belgian's 
6,000,000  of  people  60,000  live  in  Brussels  and  the  rest 
want  to,  the  old  lady  told  us. 

A  short  walk  across  a  fine  square  brings  us  to  the 
Art  Gallery.  Here  is  canvas  after  canvas  of  Rubens 
glowing  with  his  bright  coloring,  amongst  them  his 
"Paracelsus"  and  "The  Adoration  of  the  Magi."  Moas, 
Franz  Hals,  Jan  Sheen,  Ruysda-al.  Cupy,  Teuters, 
Van  Dyke  have  lovely  work  here.  It  was  wonderful. 
Out  again  into  the  hot  white  light  and  into  the  green- 
ness of  the  palace  gardens  which  face  the  King's 
palace  and  past  the  finest  hotel  in  Europe  to  the  great 
fountain  and  so  back  to  the  hotel  we  go. 

The  omnibus,  the  train,  the  carryall  and  a  climb 
up  226  steps  bring  us  to  the  mound  in  the  middle  of 
the  battlefield  of  Waterloo,  built  by  the  Belgium  wo- 

15 


men  who  carried  the  earth  in  baskets  on  the  head 
and  received  six  cents  a  day  for  the  hard  work.  The 
mound  is  150  feet  high  and  commands  the  entire  bat- 
tle field.  On  its  top  stands  the  lion  cast  from  cap- 
tured French  cannon  and  paid  for  by  the  allied  pow- 
ers. What  a  lovely  view  opened  before  us  as  we  fin- 
ally reached  the  top!  In  all  directions  the  little  fields 
of  grain  ripening  undier  July  sun,  lay  sleeping,  with 
the  blue  horizon  far,  far  away.  Almost  at  our  feet 
are  the  three  little  red  tiled  white  walled  cottages 
which  mark  the  middte  of  the  English  position  and  not 
more  than  1700  yards  away  the  old  farm  buildings 
which  mark  the  middle  of  the  French  lines.  The  same 
walls  are  standing  as  on  th'at  clay  in  1815  when  the 
power  of  Napoleon  was  shattered. 

A  pompous  old  English  sergeant  arranges  us  on 
the  steps  at  the  base  of  the  lion  pedestal  and  tells  us 
the  story  of  that  bloody  day,  when  of  90,000  French 
37,000  were  killed  and  of  67,000  allies  26,000  lay  dead 
under  the  stars  of  its  night.  Around  to  the  right  is 
Hougemont  where  15,000  were  killed  in  the  fierce  fight- 
ing in  its  court  yard.  So  much  blood  to  win  the  peace 
that  broods  now  over  these  fields  in  the  twilight.  Down 
the  steps  we  go  to  be  entreated  by  a  witty  Brussels 
woman  who  says,  "There  is  no  fly  on  the  Americans," 
to  buy  wooden  shoes  and  views  of  the  field. 

Next  morning  finds  us  again  in  the  beautiful  coun- 
try, hilly  now,  with  fine  castle-like  buildings  crowning 
the  heights,  on  our  way  to  .Cologne.  At  Herbestahl 
we  reach  the  Belgium  frontier  and  the  customs  officers 
drag  us  and  all  our  baggage  from  the  train  and  take 
a  look  at  our  white  collars  as  all  Europe  seems  to  do 
to  its  tourists.  On  again  through  fields  in  which  the 
women  toil  in  red  or  blue  waists  making  pretty  bits 
of  color  in  the  landscape,  and  tall,  high  trimmed  trees 
still  surround  the  fields.  At  Aix-la-Chapelle,  made 
famous  by  Charlemagne,  we  change  our  watches  from 
3:10  p.  m.  Belgium  to  4:17  p.  m.  German  time.  Arrived 
at  Cologne,  in  a  thunder  storm,  and  deposited  at  the 
Continental  hotel,  we  make  a  rush  for  the  cathedral. 
It  is  only  across  the  square  and  lifts  its  beautiful  twin 
towers  into  the  sunset  sky  with  a  beauty  upon  it  all 
that  makes  one  catch  his  breath.  "Lace  work  in 
stone"  describes  it.  As  we  step  inside  and  the  daz- 
zling, deep,  glowing  colors  'of  the  sixteenth  century 
north  windows,  and  the  magnificent  double  columns 
are  in  view,  we  know  what  a  cathedral  can  say  to  its 


worshippers.  The  pure,  simple,  Gothic  architecture 
gives  great  dignity  and  grandeur,  and  the  beautiful 
windows  give  a  wealth  of  coloring  that  fills  eye  and 
soul. 

We  sleep  sitting,  in  a  bed  decorated  by  a  fine  feath- 
erbed on  the  outside,  covered  with  fine  lace,  and  un- 
derneath, by  a  most  massive  and  complicated  wooden 
boot-jack.  Morning  sees  us  "prowling."  We  visit  the 
old  market  with  its  chattering  women  and  its  splendid 
bronze  statue  of  Emperor  William.  I  find  the  way 
down  little  crooked,  narrow  streets  with  overhang- 
ing second  stories  to  the  buildings,  see  the  church  of 
St.  Ursula  with  its  bones  of  11,000  murdered  virgins 
in  its  crypt,  then  start,  again  in  the  rain,  for  our  trip 
down  the  Rhine.  Our  dreams  of  years  are  about  to  be 
realized  through  the  kindness  of  our  many  far-away 
friends  and  we  think  of  them  gratefully. 

THE  RHINE 

The  Rhine,  July  21.— Morning  dawns  with  gray  skies 
and  falling  rain.  We  rush  aboard  the  Rhine  steamer, 
seize  one  of  those  leather  folding  stools  with  no  back, 
plant  it  in  as  dry  a  place  as  can  be  found  and  prepare 
to  see  all  the  realizations  of  our  dreams  of  years  that 
the  weather  will  allow.  The  bridge  of  boats  swings 
open  to  let  us  through  and  Cologne  looks  like  a  pan- 
orama before  us.  The  country  is  beautifully  green. 
Women  do  family  washing  in  a  pail  of  Rhine  water 
and  spread  the  garments  along  the  bank  to  dry  with 
thj  hopefulness  of  humanity  that  the  Impossible  can  be 
realized,  for  it  rains  constantly.  All  sorts  of  river  craft 
pass  us  flying  the  black,  red  and  blue  flag.  Little  red 
roofed  villages  dot  the  green  of  the  fields.  The  river 
is  not  beautifully  blue  as  it  would  be  under  a  blue 
sky  but  is  blue  white.  All  forenoon  the  rain  falls  and 
the  crowded  boat  carries  a  great  load  of  disappoint- 
ment as  well  as  its  246  American  tourists;  a  Cook  par- 
ty of  52,  a  Hill  party  of  35,  the  Pratt  party  of  40  and 
just  enough  German,  English,  and  Belgians  to  keep  the 
Americans  sure  they  are  in  a  foreign  country. 

In  the  afternoon  the  river  narrows,  the  banks  grow 
higher,  then  they  turn  into  great  hills,  castle- crowned, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  Rhine  dawns  for  us. 

Coblenz  is  reached  where  the  Moselle  river  rushes  in- 
to the  Rhine  and  the  best  wine  of  the  Rhine  country 
is  made. 

17 


Now  the  great  rocky  slopes  and  steeps  are  vine  clad, 
with  strips  of  stone  fences  to  keep  the  vines  from 
slipping  into  the  Rhine,  apparently.  Crest  after  crest 
crowds  down  to  the  river's  edge  and  towers  into  the 
sky  so,  from  the  boat,  the  tops  cannot  be  seen.  Great 
tilted,  twisted,  standing-on-end  layers  of  rock  show 
themselves  and  back  of  us  blue-black  almost,  in  the 
rain  and  in  front  of  us  high  and  misty  they  still  show. 
Castles  of  all  kinds  crown  them.  History  has  been 
made  in  them  and  on  the  vine  clad  slopes  about  them. 

Kere  is  a  little  octagonal  tower,  with  a  stone  chair, 
close  to  the  river's  edge.  In  it  the  Kings  of  the  Rhine 
country  were  crowned  before  Germany  was  a  nation. 

Here  is  a  magnificent  monument  of  bronze.on  a  little 
island  in  the  river,  to  Emperor  William  I,  at  Rhine- 
fels. 

Then  "The  Lurlei"  swing  into  view  around  a  curve, 
great,  needle  shaped  jagged  peaks  at  whose  base  the 
wicked  Rhine-nymphs  lured  the  traveler  to  his  death. 
A  rush  to  the  other  side  of  the  boat!  The  Emperor's 
castle  is  in  sight  perched  high  on  its  tree-covered 
steep.  It  looks  too  modern.  There  is  an  old,  old  castle 
on  a  bare  rock.  It  dates  back  to  the  12th  century  and 
is  still  used  as  a  prison.  Grim  and  inaccessible  enough 
it  looks  with  its  little  slits  of  windows  in  its  great 
stone  walls  and  its  thick  stone  outer  walls  enclosing  it. 

There  is  an  "oh"  of  delight  and  Prince  Henry's  Cas- 
tle, the  Prince  Henry  who  came  to  America  to  see  us 
and  whom  we  all  love,  shows.  It  is  right  at  the  pin- 
nacle of  a  very  high,  very  jagged  tree-clad  rock.  It 
doesn't  seem  possible  to  get  up  to  it  or  down  from  it 
but  it  overlooks  the  Rhine  for  miles  and  miles  and 
opposite  it  are  the  most  lovely  slopes  of  all  the  Rhine 
steeps.  Several  Americans  express  a  very  strong  de- 
sire to  own  it,  especially  the  smallest  and  thinnest  wo- 
man of  the  Pratt  party. 

Now  some  one  says,  Here  is  Bingen,  "Fair  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine."  And  fair  it  certainly  is.  Just  below 
it  is  the  famous  "Mouse  Tower"  where  the  wicked 
baron,  who  let  people  starve  because  they  couldn't 
pay  his  price  for  his  stored  corn,  lived.  It  rises 
from  the  water,  apparently,  a  not  very  high  round 
tower  and  looks  a  good  place  to  starve  a  stingy  baron 
in  and  let  the  rats  devour  him  as  the  legend  says  was 
done.  Too  bad  America  hasn't  it  for  its  coal  barons. 
Later  on,  the  splendid  monument  to  Germania  made 
of  captured  French  cannon  and  crowning  the  very 

18 


highest  point  of  the  Rhine  hills  shows  in  the  twilight. 
No  wonder  the  Germans  love  the  Rhine,  with  such 
stimulus  to  their  national  pride.  The  sun  goes  down, 
red  as  fire,  into  a  bed  of  orange  clouds  and  darkness 
settles  down.  An  odor  of  jasmine  comes  sweet  and 
strong  from  the  shore,  the  linden  lends  its  odor;  green 
and  red  lights  flash  from  the  top  of  a  tower  and  make 
long  trembling  lines  of  color  across  the  water,  lights 
twinkle  and  reflect  all  along  shore;  a  transport  full  of 
German  soldiers  who  sing  their  national  hymn  as  the 
band  plays  it  gives  us  a  hearty  cheer  and  we  return  it. 
Here  is  Mayence.  The  journey  down  the  Rhine  is  done. 

MA  YENCE 

Mayence — We  land  from  our  Rhine  steamer  in  the 
usual  bustle  of  baggage  shot  down  an  inclined  plane 
and  caught  by  active  porters  who  strap  four  or  five 
valises  together  and  walk  off  with  them  over  their 
shoulders  with  two  more  in  each  hand  in  an  easy  and 
leisurely  manner.  Up  a  long  street,  glistening 
with  rain,  and  lined  with  the  blossoming  lin- 
dens, heavy  with  fragrance  we  go  to  our  hotel. Just  op- 
posite it  is  a  hall  hung  with  the  national  colors 
in  which  an  immense  audience  listens  to  a  great 
orchestra.  From  the  hotel  windows  was  a  lovely  view 
of  the  Rhine  filled  with  'the  reflections  of  myriad 
lights.  Four  o'clock  in  the  morning  brought  the  tramp 
of  marching  feet  and  a  thousand  of  Germany'®  young 
men,  forced  to  give  up  four  of  the  best  years  of  their 
lives  to  military  gymnastics,  march  past.  Fine  look- 
ing, strong,  alert  they  seemed. 

The  sun  comes  up  out  of  the  Rhine,  through  clouds 
of  rose  red  mist,  as  red  as  It  went  into  it  the  night 
before,  and  it  is  time  to  get  ready  for  sight  seeing. 

Next  to  the  hotel  stands  a  section  of  the  old  Roman 
wall  built  by  Claudius.  "What  history  it  has  seen! 

We  make  a  rush  for  the  old  14th  century  cathedral, 
going  across  the  market  where  flowers  of  all  kinds 
make  a  blaze  of  color  and  old  women  sell  vegetables 
of  many  kinds  and  small  quantities,  with  great  ener- 
gy. Here  is  the  cathedral;  very  high  pews,  the  high 
altar  in  the  front  instead  of  the  rear,  dim  old  16th  cen- 
tury pictures  of  the  events  of  the  greatest  Life  in  the 
world;  effigies  of  gilded  saints  lying  with  hands  to- 
gether in  prayer  marking  the  tombs  of  crusaders,  the 
statue  of  The  Virgin  prayed  to  by  honest  beggars. 

19 


Time  is  up.  A  scurry  down  a  narrow  side  street  not 
wide  enough  for  a  wagon  to  drive  through,  a  dodging 
of  two  two-dog  carts,  and  the  omnibus  takes  us  to  our 
station.  On  our  way,  we  see  recruits  practicing  the 
famous  German  "goose-step,"  on  their  drill  grounds, 
which  the  Presbyterian  ladies  of  the  party  insisted 
they  could  do  perfectly  if  only  given  a  chance.  In 
Mayence  as  in  every  other  continental  city,  were  little 
parks  filled  with  flowers  at  every  available  space,  'and 
every  house,  almost,  had  its  window  boxes  full  of 
bloom.  Every  station  has  its  flowers  and  every  inch 
of  ground  is  occupied.  A  rush  through  a  long  tunnel, 
a  glimpse  of  more  soldiers,  some  of  them  throwing 
kisses  to  the  younger  faces  in  the  train,  and  we  are  off 
for  Heidelberg.  Women  toil  in  the  fields  again,  cutting 
the  grain  with  a  heavy  cradle  while  men  follow  bind- 
ing it  into  bundles.  Here  comes  a  big  two-wheeled 
cart,  into  a  station  marked  Helvetia,  with  a  cow  hitch- 
ed to  one  side  of  the  tongue.  She  seems  to  find  no 
trouble  in  doing  her  work  with  this  one-sided  arrange- 
ment and  "chews  gum"  placidly  as  she  goes.  Women 
carry  great  loads  in  baskets  and  bales  on  the  head  as 
they  walk  through  the  ripening  grain  fields.  Pumpkine 
and  potatoes  are  in  bloom;  hops  climb  their  tall  poles; 
oats  and  wheat  in  little  narrow  strips  about  two 
blocks  long  make  grain  fields.  A  fine  rain  falls  but 
the  people  in  the  fields  work  away  bare  headed.  Sud- 
denly on  the  close  horizon  the  German  mountains 
swing  into  view  blue  black,  with  their  castles  perched 
on  top.  They  look  like  the  Berkshire  Hills  except  for 
the  castles  and  the  fact  that  the  grain  fields  creep  too 
near  to  their  tops  sometimes.  The  forest  clad  ones  are 
most  numerous  and  beautiful.  Great  care  Germany 
takes  of  its  trees.  Wherever  one  may  be  in  a  field, 
there  it  is,  trimmed  and  cared  for. 

Here  comes  an  ox  team  so  hitched  that  they  pull 
the  load  with  the  head.  The  farmers  of  the  party 
make  disgusted  comment.  Alternate  plain  and  moun- 
tain brings  us  to  Heidelberg  where  we  rusih  in  to 
luncheon  to  lose  no  time  getting  up  to  the  castle.  Dur- 
ing luncheon,  many  plans  are  made  for  carrying  away 
the  porcelain  stove  that  towers  to  the  ceiling  in  one 
corner  of  the  room.  It  is  very  ornate,  and  has  a  fire 
pot  that  would  hold  about  two  quarts  of  nut  coal. 
An  American  who  lives  in  Germany  said  it  took  all 
day  to  get  the  stove  warm  so  there  wasn't  any  chance 

20 


for  people.  Here  come  the  carriages  for  the  ride.  The 
eight  open  landaus  file  up  to  the  steps  and  the  party 
fills  them.  As  we  go  on,  the  uninitiated  give  us  sorrow- 
ful looks  thinking  us  a  funeral,  minus  the  "corpse"  and 
the  knowing  small  boy  shrieks  in  German,  "It  is  an- 
other! See  them!"  Under  the  tree,  along  the  side 
walls  the  students  eat  and  drink,  some  in  the  red  caps, 
Borne  in  the  green  of  the  different  duelling  corps.  Up 
the  steep  street  one  climbs  until,  at  a  turn, 
the  whole  of  Heidelberg  lies  in  panorama  before  us, 
until  its  red-tiled  roofs,  its  steep  streets,  the  blue  river 
dividing  it  and  the  bluer  mountains  pile  into  the 
sky  about  it. 

Here  is  the  old  castle!  What  a  magnificent  place  it 
must  have  been  in  1460  at  its  prime!  Look  at  that 
splendid  view  down  the  valley  and  over  to  the  sur- 
rounding mountains  before  we  see  the  tree  in  the 
Princess  Elizabeth's  garden  that  has  been  growing 
ever  since  1650.  What  sights  and  sounds  has  that  old 
tree  known  !  There  is  the  old  dungeon  tower  with  its 
6  feet  thick  walls  and  its  60  feet  deep  and  80  feet  wide 
moat.  The  moat  is  all  filled  with  magnificent  old  trees 
now  and,  let  us  hope,  the  prisoners  have  all  forgot- 
ten their  sorrows.  Here  is  the  old  draw  bridge  with 
the  400-year-old  portcullis  that  has  shut  the  door  of 
hope  for  many  a  brave  man.  Over  here  is  an  ivy-tree 
150  years  old,  gnarled  and  twisted.  Up  there  high  in 
the  old  wall  is  the  old  sun  dial  the  shadow  of  whose 
finger  points  out  the  hours  encircled  below.  Here  is 
the  great  court  yard  and  in  this  doorway  we  have  a 
view  of  the  immense  banqueting  hall.  Down  into  the 
crypt  we  go  to  see  the  famous  old  wine  cask  which 
furnished  wine  for  the  banquets.  It  holds  49,000  gal- 
lons, and  has  a  pump  just  outside  the  banqueting  hall 
with  a  handle  two  yards  long.  A  burst  of  gay  singing 
in  men's  voices.  Across  the  hall  from  the  old  wine 
cask  is  a  room  of  200  men  drinking  beer,  smoking  un- 
til the  air  is  blue,  singing  loudly  and  gaily,  led  by  a 
band.  It  is  the  celebration  of  the  birthday  of  a  teacher 
in  Heidelberg  university  by  his  old  students.  As  we 
look  in,  the  old  Herr  Professor  rises,  his  students  all 
rise  from  the  long  tables  too,  and  beer  mugs  are  held 
high  in  air,  a  rousing  cheer  goes  up  and  the  contents 
of  the  glasses  go  down.  The  old  architect  -teacher 
beams  approval.  Not  so  the  most  rampant  prohibi- 
tionist man  of  our  party.  His  groan  of  disgust  marks 
the  difference  in  the  temperance  attitude  of  the  teach- 

21 


ers  of  the  two  nations.  Through  the  rooms  of  this 
great  place,  restored  by  Frederick,  one  need  not  go  but 
take  a  look  from  the  magnificent  60-foot  wide  terrace 
instead.  What  a  view!  What  a  view!  How  we  wish 
all  the  people  who  helped  to  send  us  away  could  see 
it!  Rain!  A  rush  for  the  carriages,  a  swift  ride  to 
the  hotel,  a  scramble  for  the  stores  and  the  station  and 
we  are  en  route  for  Berne. 

Soon  the  Swiss  mountains  crowd  dim  and  far  aw;ay 
on  the  horizon,  the  frontier  is  crossed  at  Basel  and  un- 
til midnight  our  train  rushes  our  tired  party  into 
Switzerland.  At  one  o'clock  we  sleep  hoping  that  the 
rain  will  stop  for  our  one  day  in  Berne.  Talk  about 
vacations!  Isn't  from  5  a.  m.  until  1  at  night  a  good 
day's  work? 

BERNE 

Berne,  Switzerland. — The  steady  tramp  of  rain 
overhead,  our  room  is  next  the  roof,  wakens  us 
Sunday  morning.  A  peep  from  the  little,  swinging, 
latticed  window  shows  only  the  outline  of  the  golden 
dome  of  the  New  Parliament  buildings,  so  thick  is  the 
rain-veil.  Not  even  the  white  and  gold  splendors  of 
our  hotel,  the  Bernerhof,  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe; 
nor  the  pleasure  of  riding  in  a  "lift"  that  held  but 
three  persons  and  took  five  minutes  from  the  fifth  to 
the  first  floor,  consoled  the  party  of  forty.  The  view 
from  the  dining  room  window  showed,  in  the  inter- 
vals between  heavy  showers,  the  dark  green,  rushing 
waters  of  The  Aare  in  the  middle  of  a  valley  from 
which  rose  on  each  side,  the  green  foot-hills  of  the 
Alps.  Back  of  these,  blue-black  showed  the  lower 
peaks  and,  far  beyond,  curtained  by  the  mist,  we  knew 
were  the  Bernese  Alps.  Great  wreaths  of  vapor  swept 
over  this  vivid  green  and  blue,  snow  white  cloud-drifts 
buried  them,  lifted  and  trailed  into  great  bars  of  white 
across  them.  Dazzling  whiteness  it  was,  when  the  sun 
gleamed  ever  so  little  upon  it.  After  luncheon,  the 
rain  having  stopped  for  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Moore's 
invitation  to  drive  about  Berne  was  accepted.  Such  a 
quaint  place  we  found  it,  as  it  nestled  in  its  dazzling 
green  valley  surrounded  by  its  equally  blue  mountains. 
The  houses  stuccoed  on  the  outside,  second  story  over- 
hanging the  street,  stood  with  the  gable  ends 
facing  it;  little  window-boxes  full  of  bloom  at 

22 


each  upper  window  made  even  the  grayness  seem  gay. 
Over  a  magnificent  bridge  whioh  gave  a  s-plendid  view 
of  the  deep-green  Aare  and  the  old  buildings  of  lower 
Berne,  we  went  to  the  bear-pit.  Since  Berne  means 
bear  it  would  never  do  to  miss  that.  Six  yreat,  fat, 
good-natured  bruins  sat  up  and  begged  for  peanuts 
while  four  little  ones  surveyed  them,  sleepily,  from  the 
branches  of  the  very  tall  tree  into  which  they  had 
climbed.  A  great  crowd  watched  them.  Back  along 
the  old  arcaded  streets  we  came.  These  arcades  ar« 
very  wide  and  built  out  over  the  street  so  shopping 
might  be  done  despite  the  rain.  It  made  the  quaintest 
possible  looking  street.  One  of  the  arcades  dated 
back  to  1489,  three  years  before  Columbus  discovered 
America.  All  sorts  of  goods  were  for  sale  in  them  but 
they  were  closed  for  the  Sabbath. 

The  old  cathedral,  dating  1421,  has  a  beautiful  spire 
and  one  of  the  finest  organs  in  Europe.  The  Catholics 
built  it,  but  it  was  taken  from  them  and  given  to  the 
Protestants.  A  short  drive  brings  us  to  the  old  fif- 
teenth century  clock  tower.  Many  carriages  are  drawn 
up  neai»  it  and  a  crowd  of  sighteers  waits  the  clock's 
striking.  The  hour  of  three  is  near.  A  rooster  pops 
forward  and  gives  a  crow,  the  sleeping  old  man  under 
the  clock-face  wakes  and  yawns;  the  bear  dances;  the 
man  above  the  clock  strikes  the  big  bell  with  a  mallet. 
For  four  hundred  years  has  the  clock  been  running 
and  the  cock  been  crowing.  Everybody  laughs  as  the 
laet  feeble,  melancholy  crow  of  the  cock  sounds,  and 
goes  away  to  his  sightseeing. 

Here  is  a  typical  restaurant.  A  great  room  with  a 
frescoed  ceiling,  carved  rafters,  and  hurrying  waiter 
girls  is  filled  with  men  and  women  who  sit  at  small 
tables  drinking  beer,  the  men  smoking  until  the  air  is 
blue.  A  band  plays  somewhere  in  its  fog.  Gaily  uni- 
formed soldiers  chat  and  laugh.  Nobody  is  drunk  be- 
oause  he  has  probably  taken  two  hours  to  drink  a  sin- 
gle stein.  Here  is  the  statue  of  the  man  that  "eats 
bad  children  up"  with  its  base  encircled  by  giddy  little 
bears  dancing  on  hind  legs,  with  paw  clasping  paw. 

Over  the  great  Kornhaus  bridge  with  its  massive  pil- 
lars, and  its  beautiful  bronze  ceiling,  to  the  top  of  the 
height  overlooking  the  city  on  that  side,  where,  again, 
is  the  lovely  panorama  of  red-tiled  roofs,  the  green 
river  between  one-half  and  the  other,  and  the  green 
blue  hills  melting  into  the  mist  wreathed  mountains, 
we  go;  then  across  another  great  bridge  high  above 

23 


the  great  trees  towering  on  the  banks  of  the  Aare  up  to 
the  hills  on  which  Berne  university  stands.Fine  modern 
buildings  they  are  crowning  heights  that  give  a  won- 
derful view  of  river  and  mountains.  The  rain  has  been 
pouring  an  hour  and  is  even  getting  into  our  closed 
carriage  so  we  make  a  rush  for  home.  The  usual  sev- 
en-course dinner  with  three  meat  courses,  one  of  them 
chicken,  over,  we  go  out  on  the  terrace  to  see  whether 
the  late  twilight  has  brought  the  distant  mountains  to 
us. 

A  rift  in  the  clouds;  the  after  glow  shows  on  the 
eastern  horizon,  and  the  mountains  have  come  to  us! 
A  cry  of  sheer  eostacy  breaks  from  each  one.  "Ach! 
Himmel!"  says  the  German  lady.  The  green,  green 
foothills  sweep  up  to  the  blue  lower  peaks;and,  crowd- 
ing back  of  these,  blue-black  to  the  snow  line,  dazzling 
whiteness  tipped  with  rose,  above  it,  into  the  amber 
evening  sky,  tower  those  grand  peaks,  Pilatus,  Rigo 
and  the  whole  family  of  the  Berneee  Alps  closing  the 
far-reaching  distance.  The  heart  swells  and  the  eyes 
dim.  Henceforth  this  is  a  more  beautiful  and  sacred 
world.  "Ach!  Louie!"  says  an  excited  American  from 
the  chair  upon  which  she  stands,  and  the  tension  of 
feeling-  breaks  into  a  g'ay  laugh.  We  go  back  to  our 
evening  service  and  sing  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul" 
and  "Rock  of  Ages"  with  glad  hearts;  and  an  eloquent 
and  beautiful  talk  by  Rev.  Bryant,  father  of  Prof. 
Bryant  of  Coe,  on  "Service"  closes  our  first  Sabbath 
in  Switzerland. 

The  next  morning  is  gray,  our  distin  guished  moun- 
tain visitors  have  gone  and  mist  wraps  the  lower 
peaks.  We  go  shopping  in  the  queer  old  arcaded  shops 
until  the  more  reckless  are  thankful  for  return  tickets 
already  in  hand.  Such  "dear  little  one  room  places," 
says  one  of  the  girls.  Small  peaches,  smaller  apples,  a 
few  bunches  of  grapes  (six  or  seven  sold  as  a  basket) 
enormous  gooseberries  as  large  as  the  peaches,  were 
the  stock-in-trade  of  the  fruit  merchants. 

A  glance  at  our  watches,  a  hurried  rush  for  the  train 
and  we  are  off  for  Interlaken  where  the  near  glories 
of  the  mountains  wait  us. 

What  lovely  green  country!  The  mountains  now 
on  the  horizon,  now  gone,  play  a  gigantic  game  of  hide 
and  seek  with  us.  Miss  Moore  complains  that  she 
"can't  see  the  houses  for  the  roofs"  so  low  are  they 
and  so  near  do  they  touch  tha  ground  at  the  house- 
sides.  It  is  unlike  Germany  in  one  respect,  we  again 


see  houses  of  wood.  German  towns  are  all  brick  and 
stone.  Miss  Wyant  proposes  her  favorite  conundrum 
"Why  were  the  party  on  the  Dominion  like  Noah's 
Ark?"  The  once-sea-sick  members  of  the  crowd  glare 
at  her  but  can't  guess.  "Because  both  were  pitched 
within  and  without."  A  groan  follows  this  scintilla- 
tion. 

Here  we  are  at  Thun.  Change  for  the  lake  boat.  As 
we  cross  the  gang  plank  of  one  little  steamer  big 
drops  of  rain  begin  to  fall.  A  rush  to  one  side  of  the 
boat!  Here  on  a  little  island,  so  small  that  the  house 
covers  the  whole  of  it,  is  the  "House  of  the  Poet  Hein- 
rick  von  Kliest  from  1802-180,3."  It  is  a  fit  place  for  a 
poet,  with  the  mountains  about  it  arid  the  water  the 
most  exquisite  deep  blue-green  that  must  be  seen  to  be 
appreciated.  The  deep,  under  green  of  Niagara  is 
most  like  it  and  yet  not  so  beautiful. 

What  a  eight  the  mountains  are!  Was  there  ever 
anything  lovelier  than  that  deep,  deep  blue  with  its 
dazzling  white  cloud-mist?  Away  on  one  of  the  blue 
steeps  is  Castle  Thun  with  the  lake  touching  the  sheer 
steep  wall-like  base.  Here  comes  the  rain  again.  It 
simply  pours  and  beats  the  lovely  lake  into  dimples 
everywhere  turning  it  from  green  to  blue,  as  it  did 
most  of  us.  From  perches  on  tables,  with  umbrella 
overhead,  the  dauntless  American  tourist  sees  what  he 
can  of  this  most  beautiful  lake  in  Europe.  Long,  nar- 
row,mountain  bounded,  with  peaks  crowding  down  in- 
to it  from  every  direction,  it  is  lovely  in  the  rain. 
What  must  it  be  in  the  sunshine! 

An  abrupt  turn  of  the  steamer  and  Interlaken  comes 
into  view.  It  has  been  raining  for  several  days  here 
and  the  quaint,  little  town  is  full  of  tourists  wait- 
ing for  fine  weather.  We  see  them  everywhere  as  we 
go  to  our  hotel,  which  looks  out  on  the  Jungfrau  when 
she  wishes  to  be  seen.  The  lower  peaks  are  within 
hand-touch  apparently  and  are  as  soft  as  plush  (in 
their  green  tree  covering)  to  the  top.  None  of  the 
higher  peaks  show.  Everybody  eats  dinner  hurriedly 
and  rushes  off  down  the  little  narrow  street,  to  the 
shops,  which  are  full  of  lovely  wood  and  ivory  carv- 
ings, views,  pictures  and  souvenirs.  It  is  like  a  circus- 
day.  The  streets  are  crowded.  Certainly,  when 
"Young  England"  goes  on  a  vacation,  he  doesn't  try  to 
look  pretty.  Here  is  a  party  of  muddy,  wet,  moun- 
tain climbers.  They  have  long  alpenstocks,  heavy 
shoes,  awful  hats,  and  linen  clothes.  The  boys  of  15 

26 


have  linen  trousers  to  the  knees,  then  no  covering  for 
the  leg  until  the  short  stocking  coming  to  the  fcshoe 
top  is  reached.  The  small  girl  has  no  covering  from 
knee  to  shoe  top.  She  doesn't  seem  to  care,  though,  and 
looks  ruddy  and  strong  as  any  one  need.  The  Ameri- 
can tourists  are  very  trim-looking  except  the  dreadful 
Panama  hat  bent  into  any  shape  except  a  pretty  one. 

Herds  of  mountain  goats,  six  or  seven  together,  are 
being  driven  up  the  street,  stopped  at  the  right  cus- 
tomer's house  and  milked.  Some  of  them  draw  carts, 
going  along  in  a  very  spirited  and  gay  manner.  Dog 
teams  draw  big  carts  with  big  loads.  Everything  is 
gray  and  it  is  so  cold  it  is  very  uncomfortable.  Sud- 
denly there  comes  a  burst  of  sunshine.  Over  to  the 
right  shows  a  snow-capped  mountain.  Everybody 
cheers  up,  but  at  6  o'clock  it  is  again  raining.  The 
finest  German  orchestra  is  playing  at  The  Kurhaus, 
so  after  7:30  dinner,  we  go  to  hear  it.  They  are  play- 
ing the  "Overture  to  William  Tell"  as  we  enter  and 
playing  it  splendidly,  too.  A  great  room,  brilliantly 
lighted,  filled  with  little  tables  and  the  tabes  sur- 
rounded by  people  drinking  coffee|  chocolate,  tea,  beer 
or  wine,  and  the  men  smoking,  is  what  meets  our 
gaze.  Just  then  the  orchestra  stops.  A  card  bearing 
the  word  "Pause"  is  put  up  and  we  find  we  must  wait 
15  minutes  for  our  next  number.  It  comes  finally,  a 
quartet  of  cornetists,  who  play  German  folk  songs 
beautifully,  getting  a  lovely  singing  quality  from  their 
rather  intractable  instruments.  An  enthusiastic  en- 
core is  given  each  number  of  the  suite  of  four.  Then 
"Pause"  again.  What  a  medley  of  nationalities!  Eng- 
lish, American,  Canadian,  German,  French,  Austrian, 
a  Tyrolese  in  a  hat  with  a  feather  in  the  side,  Italian, 
Danish,  Swede.  It  is  so  cold  we  shiver  in  our  fur 
capes  but  the  English  ladies,  in  thin  dresses  with  open 
work  yokes,  stalk  about  looking  warm  and  serene. 

Now  comes  a  Schubert  number.  And  how  it  is  play- 
ed! with  such  feeling,  shading,  precision,  understand- 
ing! Surely  the  German  Js  nothing  if  not  musical. 

It  is  cold  and  late.  We  hurry  home  to  sleep  under 
three  blankets  and  a  feather  bed  and  wish  we  had  a 
fire  beside. 

The  next  morning  it  rains.  Our  room  mate  says 
something  about  breakfast  but  we  remark,  in  a  tone 
compounded  of  Polar  bear  and  grizzly,  that  we  "don't 
want  any  Continental  breakfast  and  won't  get  up  until 
the  sun  shines."  Five  minutes  later  a  loud  rap  on  the 

26 


door  and  an  energetic  voice,  "Hurry  up,  Miss  Gurley! 
The  Jungfrau  is  out!"  Whereupon  after  a  few  wise 
remarks  about  recognizing  the  rulings  of  Providence, 
she  goes  away  leaving  us  "gnashing;"  for  we  know 
Jungfrau  won't  stay  "out"  long  enough  ft»r  us  to  get 
ready.  Taking  this  as  a  warning,  we  get  ready  and 
wander  disconsolately  about  in  the  shops  that  sell 
carvings.  One  of  our  numerous  party  meets  us  and 
tells  us  that  we  are  to  be  ready  to  start  for  the  upper 
glacier  in  twenty  minutes.  Words  cannot  measure 
our  astonishment.  It  is  pouring.  The  mountains  are 
mist  wrapped  from  base  to  summit.  What  course  of 
reasoning  leads  "Herr"  Pratt  as  we  call  our  conductor, 
to  think  we  shall  ever  be  able  to  see  the  mountain,  let 
alone  today?  We  get  ready  in  all  the  warm  clothes 
we  have,  furs  and  all,  and  behold  in  twenty  minutes 
the  sun  is  shining.  Herr  Pratt  grows  two  inches  tal- 
ler. We  get  into  our  carriages  and  bliss  fills  our 
hearts.  No  such  greenness  have  we  seen  anywhere 
else.  Our  road  leads  us  past  the  cottages  with  over- 
hanging roofs  with  the  shingles  held  on  by  stones  and 
the  winter's  wood  piled  against  the  side  of  the  house 
in  the  protection  of  the  roof.  Great  heaps  of  white 
clouds  show  against  the  green  of  the  pines  and  grass. 
The  river  roars  and  tears  itself  into  watery  laca 
against  the  boulders.  Flowers  of  all  colors  fill  the 
grass.  We  all  stand  in  the  carriage,  with  a  cry  of  de- 
light, as  an  Alpine  stream  comes  in  sight.  It  has  leap- 
ed from  the  top  of  the  cliff  straight  into  the  air  and 
300  feet  down  it  comes,  lace-work  in  water,  between 
the  green  pines,  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  No  words 
can  describe  the  song  it  sang,  nor  tell  of  its  dazzling 
whiteness.  Up  and  up  we  go.  Blue  mountains  behind 
and  in  front  of  us,  green  ones  beside  us.  Waterfall  af- 
ter waterfall  like  the  one  described,  and  the  song  of  the 
river,  far  beiow  us,  is  always  in  our  ears.  Gray,  green, 
red  cliffs  tower  above  us  and  still  the  beauty  grows.  A 
rapturous  sense  of  the  beauty  of  this  world  possesses 
each  and  no  one  speaks.  Finally,  the  hotel  at  the 
head  of  the  Grindlewald  is  reached  and,  after  lunch 
the  party  starts  in  groups  for  the  upper  glacier.  Mr. 
Elethorpe  kindly  takes  charge  of  the  writer  and  she 
rides  rapturously,  on  the  high  front  seat  of  the  car- 
riage. We  have  already  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  beam- 
ty  of  glacier  ice  in  the  turquoise  blue  of  the  lower 
glacier.  One  would  never  imagine  ice  could  be  so 
beautiful.  But  that  valley  on  that  ride  to  the  upper 


glacier!  If  it  were  only  possible  to  give  each  person 
who  worked  so  faithfully  for  the  winner  of  The  Re- 
publican contest  just  one  glimpse  of  it,  he  would  be 
amply  repaid.  The  great  valley,  mountain-lined, 
lay  green  as  any  emerald,  with  the  most  wonderful 
blue  mist  shrouding  it;  and  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
the  snow  on  the  mountains  was  outdazzled  by  their 
whiter  cloud-mist.  A  walk  along  a  very  muddy  road 
on  which  pedestrians  of  all  nations  were  spoiling  good 
shoes  brings  us  to  the  glacier,  itself.  Can  those  beau- 
tiful semi-circular  arches  of  exquisite  blue  be  ice? 
Then  surely  ice  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world,  more  blue  than  the  bluest  ocean  or  sky.  To 
have  with  this  beauty  of  ice,  that  of  sun  and  moun- 
tain, mist  and  forest  is  too  much  to  be  believed.  All 
the  way  back  down  the  valley  the  magnifu  ^nt  pano- 
rama unrolls.  Just  opposite  one  of  the  lovely  water 
falls  we  stop  and  a  mountaineer  with  an  Alpine  horn 
eight  feet  long  comes.  A  wild  sweet  call  fills  the  air 
and  the  great  mountains  opposite  sing  it  back  until 
the  whole  valley  is  full  of  that  sonff  of  the  "mountains 
that  sing  together."  Tears  stand  in  the  eyes.  For  once, 
we  have  heard  the  "melody  that  sings  from  the 
heights."  We  stop  at  a  little  road  house  and  see  a 
"real,  live  chamois,"  a  gentle  little  thing  that  eats 
from  our  hand  regarding  us,  meanwhile,  with  soft 
brown  eyes.  We  gather  Alpine  roses,  daisies,  gentians, 
larkspur,  orchids. 

The  rain  sweeps  down  upon  us,  the  carriage  tops  go 
up  and  the  beautiful  view  is  shut  out  from  our  eyes 
but  into  our  hearts,  always. 


INTERLAKEN 

is  that  really  sunehine  on  the  floor!  It  is.  And  the 
two  western  enthusiasts  next  room  are  announcing 
loudly  through  the  keyhole  that  "the  Jungfrau  is 
out!"  A  hurried  plunge  into  any  article  of  clothing 
nearest  in  which  plunging  we  are  beaten  by  our  Chi- 
cago room  mate — a  rush  down  the  stairs  followed  by 
the  voice  of  the  mfaid  w*ho  cautions  "Madam,  you 
have  not  the  key  left  on  the  hook!"  It  is  too  much  for 
the  American  mind  to  work  out  the  reasons  why  one 
should  lock  one's  room  door  and  hang  the  key  on  a 
nail  just  outside.  We  come  meekly  back,  hang  our 

28 


key,  speechlessly,  on  the  hook  and  walk  out  into  the 
sunlight  and  the  presence  of  the  loveliest  mountain 
we  have  yet  seen.  The  near  peaks  crowd  within  hand 
touch  apparently,  wreathed  with  the  whitest  and  most 
dazzling  mist,  above  and  below  which  are  the  deep 
blue  and  the  soft  green.  A  snow  has  fallen  in  the 
night  on  the  higher  peaks,  which  are  fairly  glittering 
white  in  the  bright  sunlight;  and  towering  above  them 
all,  serene,  remote,  pure,  white,  scintillating,  is  the 
wonderful  Jungfrau,  the  climax  of  all  this  beautiful 
mountain  array.  It  is  an  ecstacy  to  look  and  be  alive! 
the  great  sun  fields,  the  august  Silberhorn,  the  glacier, 
the  soft  blue  of  the  mountains  lower,  and  in  front,  all 
seem  to  gleam  with  friendly  nearness  to  us.  What  a 
beautiful,  beautiful  world  when  "the  Jungfrau  is  out" 
with  its  white  crown  in  the  blue  heavens! 

The  little  Chicago  girl  and      I      walk     along     the 
foaming  green  Aare  with  this  view  fronting  us  for  a 
mile  or  more,  then  we  pack  our  bags  for  leaving.    My 
room  mate  tells  me  she  has  seen  one  of  the  little  pep- 
per mills  into  which  the  pepper  is  put  and  ground  as  it 
is  used  at  the  table,  so  we  make  a  last  flying  search 
for  one  and  find  it.    Our  little  boat  is  full  of  people  in 
the  gayest  of  spirits — the  mountain  climbers  are  very 
much  in  evidence  with  Alpenstock  and  the  outrageous 
clothes — already  described — which  the  mountain  climb- 
ers affect;  the  river  is  the  deepest  possible  green  and 
all   about   are  the  mountains.     We  go  past  an  ever- 
changing    panorama    of    beauty,    into    Lake    Brienz. 
All  along,   the  sound  of  those  lovely  waterfalls  is  in 
our  ears  and  the  same  white  lacy  waters  stripe  the 
green   side  of  the  mountains  and  the  Geisbach  Falls 
are  in  sight,  tumbling,  roaring  and  foaming  into  the 
lake.  One  can  trace  it  up  the  whole  height  of  moun- 
tain through  lanes  of  trees,  over  great  boulders  in  its 
three  great  plunges  by  which  it  makes  its  way  into  the 
lake  from  its  snow  fields  above.     By  train  to  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  and  by  cog  railway  over  the  Brunig 
pass  we  go.  What  a  ride  that  is!   An  ever- widening 
prospect   of  peaceful  valley,   checkered   by   fields  and 
dotted  by  towns;  mountain  after  mountain  coming  in- 
to view;  great  gulfs  into  which  one  looks  from  the  car 
window;  crowding  fir  balsam  fragrant  and  spicy  in  the 
hot  sunshine;  more  beautiful  valley,  greater  mountain 
heights,  with  their  white,  glittering  water  falls;  a  stop 
at  the  mountain  top,  a  wild  slide  down  the  other  side 


of  the  pass  and  lake  Lucerne  is  in  view.  Soon  Lucerne 
is  reached  and  we  have  our  room  assigned  in  the  Hotel 
de  la  Europe. 

Dinner — which  is  a  rather  swell  affair  in  which  one 
eats  to  a  time  table,  made  by  the  bell  of  the  head 
waiter  which  summons  all  the  waiters — at  one  fell 
swoop  and  in  parade  line  to  serve  the  next  course — we 
go  to  see  the  Lion  of  Lucerne.  Very  gay  are  the  Lu- 
cerne streets,  lovely  the  lake  and  river  in  full  reflect- 
ion of  myriad  lights.  All  sorts  of  little  stores  and 
booths  line  the  street  by  which  one  approaches  the 
Lion.  Into  a  little  park,  dark  with  the  foliage  of  trees 
we  turn.  There  is  a  sound  of  falling  water,  and  (as  we 
walk  toward  it)  surrounded  by  vines  and  trees,  high  on 
its,  or  rather  in  its  stone  cliff,  gleams  the  Lion,  in  the 
electric  light.  It  is  majestic,  pathetic,  noble.  All  the 
little  side  shows  vanish  from  one's  mind  as  the  great 
lion,  powerful  in  health  but  so  pathetically  helples  sin 
death,  with  limp  paw  spread  protectingly  over  the 
lilies  of  France,  shows  soft  and  white  in  the  white 
light.  Never  had  heroism  a  more  pathetic  or  beautiful 
monument. 

At  8:30  we  are  off  for  the  ascent  of  the  Stanserhorn. 
It  is  an  exquisite  morning,  Lake  Lucerne  is  at  its  best 
and  the  friendly  mountains  again  crowd  to  its  shores. 
Twenty-one  peaks  we  had  counted  from  our  hotel  win- 
dow, four  of  them  snowclad.  Over  the  vividly  green 
lake  we  go  to  Stans,  then  get  into  a  little  car  for  the 
cog  railway  ascent.  Again  there  is  the  beautiful  pan- 
orama of  valley  widening  and  widening— only  now  all 
four  arms  of  Lake  Lucerne  show  their  lovely  waters. 
We  snatch  vivid  colored  wild  flowers  from  the  banks 
as  we  pass  and  masses  of  blue,  red  and  yellow  are  be- 
yond our  reach.  We  leave  our  car  and  climb  to  the 
top— 6,000  feet  above  sea  level  and  look  off,  on  one  side 
on  the  34  peaks  ranged  in  crowded  phalanx  with  deli- 
cate blue  mist,  and  deep  blue  color  to  the  top.  How 
can  one  make  another  see  such  beauty? 

In  the  evening  at  5,  we  hear  an  organ  concert  in 
the  cathedral  which  has  one  of  the  finest  organs  in 
Europe.  It  is  a  quaint  old  cathedral,  surrounded  by 
cloisters,  and  arcaded  on  two  sides.  At  one  corner  is  a 
figure  of  Christ  and  in  the  heavy  rain  of  the  evening, 
every  one  passing  who  is  of  the  faith  kneels  to  it.  Old 
and  young,  well  and  ill  dressed,  bend  the  knee  to  the 
emblem  of  unselfish  love  and  have  been  doing  so 


since  1100  A.  D.    The  voice  of  the  organ  calls  us  in  and 
soon  we  are  lost  in  the  flood  of  melody  poured  from  it, 
into  the  red,  violet  and  gold  lighted  spaces  of  the  ca- 
thedral. 
The  next  morning  sees  us  ea  route  for  Paris. 

ON  TO  PARIS 

July  24. — A  walk  in  the  moraing  through  the  old 
covered  Roman  bridge,  which  goes  slantingly  across 
the  river  and  is  decorated  overhead  with  oil  paintings 
telling  the  history  of  Lucerne,  showed  how  very  o'd 
part  of  it  was.  How  many  feet  in  such  different  cir- 
cumstance, had  hurried  under  its  protecting  cover, 
while  eyes  looked  out  the  little  windows  on  the  love- 
liness of  the  river. 

The  rain  began  to  pour  down  as  we  left  the  station 
and  the  mountains  disappeared  rapidly.  At  Basle  we 
left  the  frontier.  At  "Petite  Croix"  we  had  our  "bag- 
gazh"  examined  and  France  began  to  slide  from  our 
car  wheels. 

The  country  is  flat  with  its  strips  of  grain  fields, 
worked  by  the  people  who  live  in  the  little  houses 
grouped  about  the  big  country  house  with  its  tall 
trees  and  whitewashed  wall  surrounding  it.  The  grain 
is  being  cut  with  a  sickle  or  cradle  and  bound  by  hand 
the  women  doing  the  cutting,  the  men  the  binding. 
It  is  hauled  away  in  two  wheeled-carts  drawn  by  great 
horses  hitched  tandem.  The  deep-greens  of  England 
and  Switzerland  are  gone  and  the  yellow  greens  take 
their  place.  Most  of  the  houses  are  brick  with  very 
little  or  no  roof  projection.  The  men  mending  the 
roads  add  touches  of  color  to  the  landscape  by  their 
bright  red,  blue  or  yellow  sashes.  We  travel  in  cars 
divided  into  compartments,  entered  by  one  side  door 
and  along  this  side  runs  a  very  narrow  corridor,  with 
the  compartment  doors  on  one  side  and  large  win- 
dows on  the  other.  A  brass  railing  runs  along  under 
the  windows  to  which  one  may  cling  as  he  stands 
looking  out  while  the  car  sways  and  bumps  along.  The 
train  is  vestibuled  and  the  doors  are  locked  so  one 
can't  get  out  at  the  station  until  the  guard  comes 
along  and  unlocks  the  door.  At  every  station  are 
French  soldiers  in  uniforms  of  varying  gorgeousness 
and  ill  flttingness.  Mere  country  boys  these  soldiers 
are,  most  of  them.  Certainly  they  are  neither  imposing 
nor  neat.  A  long  ride  across  the  flat  country  with 

31 


sometimes  the  chateau  of  the  land-owner  in  eight, 
sometimes  with  glimpses  down  a  long  white  road  tree- 
bordered,  sometimes  a  canal  with  its  green  banks  and 
slow-moving  boats,  brings  us  to  Paris. 

We  ride  across  the  city  to  hotel  D'lena  at  6  o'clock 
where  the  wet  streets  are  full  of  people  hurrying  home 
through  the  pouring  rain.  A  vivid,  rapidly  moving 
panorama  it  was.  It  was  a  little  exciting  to  see  the 
street  cars  on  boats  on  the  Seine,  and  rather  thrilling 
to  find  we  were  to  be  near  the  Eiffel  Tower.  The 
D'lena  proved  to  be  "marble  hills"  glittering  with 
mirrors  with  many  marble  stairs  to  climb  unless  one 
waited  for  the  slow  moving  elevator  and  the  bright 
little  French  lad,  who  worked  it.  A  lovable  little  chap 
he  was  with  bright  brown  hair  clipped  close  to  his 
round  head,  blue  eyes  with  a  pleasant  twinkle,  a  blue 
coat  with  white  buttons,  white  linen  trousers  button- 
ed about  the  ankles  by  two  big  pearl  buttons. 
He  had  a  most  alluring  smile  and  a 
charming  way  of  stepping  out  of  the  elevator,  with  a 
flourish,  before  each  lady  entered,  as  he  held  up  one, 
two  or  three  fingers  with  a  questioning  "Madame"  to 
find  out  the  floor.  The  dining  room  is  so  full  of  mir- 
rors th'at  one  can  scarcely  breathe  and  the  nice  looking 
young  waiters  in  evening  dress  seem  an  army.  Any 
way  we  have  ice  water  without  a  quarrel  and  there 
is  some  salt  in  what  one  eats.  The  broken  fragments 
of  stony  bread  with  which  England  regaled  us  are 
replaced  by  rolls,  and  the  coffee  with  its  hot  milk,  is 
really  drinkable.  The  Chicago  man  insisted  he  didn't 
dare  drink  it  because  he  had  just  recovered  from  the 
"palps"  given  him  by  a  cup  of  England's  coffee  be 
drank  when  we  first  landed. 

Next  morning  is  gloriously  sunshiny  and  everything 
glitters.  Our  carriages  come  for  us  at  ten  and  we  are 
soon  passing  the  Trocadero.  We  cross  the  bridge  and 
pull  up  near  the  Ferris  Wheel  in  a  lovely  green  park 
and  begin  to  realize  what  a  beautiful  thing  the  Paris 
exposition  must  have  been  as  we  note  location  and 
beauty  of  what  is  left  of  it.  Down  boulevard  Qui 
D'Orsay  we  go  with  its  bordering  trees,  its  fine  build- 
ings, its  fine  carriages  with  well-dressed  occupants. 

What  a  beautiful  bridge  with  its  graceful  arches  and 
its  golden  figures  lifted  high  into  the  blue  of  the  sky! 
"Yes,"  .says  our  guide.  "It's  the  Alexander  Bridge!"  A 
quick  turn  and  the  glittering  tower  of  Hotel  des  Inval- 
ides  faces  us.  A  regiment  of  soldiers  tramps  past. 
Surely  the  historian  who  said  that  Napoleon's  wars 

82 


lowered  the  average  Frenchman's  stature  four  inches 
must  be  right.  The  men  seem  young,  green,  under- 
sized, not  very  well  kept.  .No  such  armies  won  Na- 
polecn's  victories. 

Here  is  the  Grand  Palace  of  Painting  and  Sculpture 
with  the  splendid,  trampling  horses  springing  from  its 
corners,  with  the  woman  under  their  chariot  wheels.  A 
fit  showing  of  victory,  surely. 

Down  the  Champs  de  Elysee,  past  the  graceful  Arc 
de  Triumph,  through  Place  de  la  Concord  where 
France  more  than  once  has  poured  out  its  best  blood, 
past  the  great  palace  of  President  Loubet  who  comes 
out — a  fine  gray  haired  gentleman — with  his  guards 
for  his  morning  ride,  past  the  Madeline,  the  Vendome 
Column,  through  the  gardens  of  The  Tuilleries  with 
their  tragic  memories,  past  Redfern's  of  fine  gown 
fame  to  the  Louvre,  we  go  and  dismiss  our  drivers. 
What  a  magnificent,  a  superb,  a  heart  stirring,  beauty 
— and  color — filled  place!  What  gilded  ceilings,  marble 
floors,  great  apartments  full  of  the  memories  of  kings 
and  queens  that  lived  and  suffered  or  died  in  them. 
Such  a  palace  of  art  as  only  a  splendor-loving  Napo- 
leon could  dream.  We  spend  three  ecstatic  hours  with 
the  Winged  Victory,  the  exquisite  Venus  who  looks 
so  softly  at  one  from  her  station,  with  painting,  sta- 
tuary, tapestry,  in  the  "Star  Room"where  "St.  Mi- 
chael, The  Dragon,"  "Mona  Lisa,"  Corregio's  "Holy 
Family,"  Veronese's  "Last  Supper,"  Raphaels,  Muril- 
los,  Fra  Angelios,  Messinis,  Botticellis  lend  their 
rich,  stirring  color.  The  great  painters  of  the  world 
are  here  and  what  exquisite  beauty  and  heart  filling 
color  they  have  left! 

Exhausted,  we  leave  until  another  time  and  repair  to 
a  French  restaurant  or  "Restauration"  as  it  is  called — 
fine,  apt  name— for  a  lunch  rendered  rather  uncertain 
as  to  its  elements  by  our  rather  free  translation  of  the 
menu  card  and  our  waiter's  inability  to  understand 
English.  When  our  bread  is  passed  to  us  in  broken 
pieces  in  a  little  basket  we  begin  to  understand  why 
the  stomach  should  be  known  also  as  a  "bread  bas- 
ket." 

The  ladies  of  the  party  grow  very  much  excited  over 
the  beautiful  feather  boas  worn  by  the  French  ladies 
and  exclaim  over  the  beauty  of  the  little  French  lads 
with  velvet  trousers,  red  waist,  stockings  only  to  shoe 
tops,  long  Lord  Fauntleroy  locks,  great  red  sash  until 

33 


his  numbers  cease  to  make  him  remarkable.  French 
children  are  not  always  lovely  but  never  cease  to  be 
ornate. 

SHOPPING  IN  PARIS 

July  26.— Shopping-  morning.  "Shall  we  go  to  the 
Bon  Marche,  or  The  Louvre  Shops?"  is  the 
burning-  question  and  is  settled  as  each  sees  fit.  The 
display  windows  are  not  so  fine  nor  is  it  easy  to  see 
what  is  in  stock  unless  one  knows  what  one  wants 
and  asks  for  it.  Then  all  sorts  of  beautiful  things  come 
out  of  drawers  and  packages.  The  feather  boas  are 
especially  lovely  and  they  are  worn  everywhere.  The 
Americans  of  our  party  buy  recklessly  considering  the 
fact  that  custom's  examination  is  to  be  passed  and  it 
would  be  pretty  hard  to  persuade  "Uncle  Sam"  that 
the  proper  number  of  gloves  for  one  American  lady  is 
sixty  pairs. 

In  the  afternoon  we  drive,  in  a  big1  brake,  with  six 
white  horses,  and  a  driver  in  bright  scarlet  which 
would  seem  to  be  sufficient  emphasis  on  the  fact  that 
we  "Follow  the  man  from  Cook's."" 

We  see  the  tower  from  .which  the  bell  gave  the  sig- 
nal for  the  "Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew;"  the  place 
where  Coligny  was  tossed  out  upon  the  walk  for  the 
inspection  of  his  vicious  king,  No.  5  Qui  de  Conti 
where  Napoleon  I.  lived  when  Madam  Sans  Gene  was 
his  washerwoman,  the  Latin  Quartier,  the  house  where 
Dante  lived  while  exiled  to  France,  the  Place  of  the 
Bastile  with  its  ghastly  memories,  the  Column  of 
July,  the  place  of  public  execution  (up  to  two  years 
ago),  the  strange  old  cemetery  of  Pierre  la  Chaise  with 
its  crowded  little  marble  tombs.  A  beautiful  monu- 
ment to  the  dead  by  Bartholdi  crowns  the  highest 
point;  weeping-  mortals  look  down  on  the  dead  body 
and  sweet  faced  angels  with  backs  turned  to  it  and 
pinions  lifted  for  flight  look  upward.  Here  lie  th« 
great  of  France:  Ar&g-o,  Roissini,  De  Musset,  Rousseau, 
La  Fontaine,  Gericault,  Victor  Hugo,  the  g-enerals  of 
Napoleon  I,  Rachel.  All  kinds  and  conditions  of 
greatness  end  in  this  crowded,  artificial,  flower-deck- 
ed, grassless,  tasteless,  showy,  melancholy,  city  of  the 
dead. 

Quite  a  contrast  is  the  great  market.  We  walk  into 
the  delectable  snail  part  of  it  first.  Here  are  gallons, 

34 


yards,  quarter  miles  of  snails  of  all  sizes  waiting  the 
moment  when  they  meet  death  at  the  hands  of  their 
purchasers. 

Tank  after  tank  of  frogs  for  eating  also  line  the 
aisles;  then  fish,  lobsters,  meats,  vegetables,  fruits,  in- 
cluding gooseberries  nearly  as  large  as  a  walnut,  and 
miles  of  all  the  sorts  of  flowers  that  grow  including 
armloads  of  the  most  rare,  exquisite  roses.  We  pass 
the  house  of  the  Countess  de  Castellane,  a  pink  marble 
affair  copied  after  the  Trianon  at  Vereailles  and  doz- 
ens of  other  places  of  note.  The  next  morning  in  the 
rain,  we  go  to  Versailles  and  wake  the  ghosts  of  roy- 
alty in  these  exquisitely  beautiful  grounds  and  splen- 
did marble,  picture-decorated  palaces.  No  spot  is  more 
pathetic  to  us  than  the  little  balcony  from  which  the 
poor,  ill  prepared,  well  meaning,  mistaken  Marie  An- 
toinette faced  the  mob  from  Paris,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  revolution,  with  her  children. 

Next  comes  a  ride  up  666  feet  to  the  top  of  the  Eiffel 
Tower  where  all  Paris  lies  at  one's  feet  like  a  great, 
green,  tree  trimmed  map  with  the  Seine  and  its  many 
graceful  bridges  making  a  green  ribbon  dividing  it, 
Paris  is  lovely,  lovely. 

It  is  very  intereting  to  see  Paris  with  a 
person  who  lived  in  it,  for  a  time,  twenty  years  ago. 
Mr.  Bryant,  father  of  Prof.  Bryant  of  Coe,  had  done 
so  and  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  the  sightseer 
with  him.  Ae  we  stood  on  the  top  platform  of  the  Eif- 
fel Tower  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryant  pointed  out  everything 
of  interest  in  Paris  and  we  'discussed  warmly,  whether 
the  people  we  saw  in  the  streets  below  looked  as  tall 
as  a  Newfoundland  dog  or  only  as  tall  as  a  little  one. 
The  sinking  sun  drove  us,  reluctantly,  home  to  din- 
ner for  part  of  the  party  were  going  to  Grand  Opera  in 
the  evening.  The  ride  through  the  brilliantly  lighted 
streets,  the  gaily  dressed  people,  the  throng  entering 
ths  Grand  Opera  house  square,  the  soldiers  in  glit- 
tering uniforms  which  lined  it,  were  all  forgotten 
when  the  blaze  of  light  showed  us  the  splendid  en- 
trance hall  of  the  house  itself.  All  that  spaciousness, 
gracefulness  of  decoration,  rich  marbles,  grand  sweep 
of  stair  cases  could  do  to  make  a  building  impressive 
had  been  done.  The  most  beautiful  opera  house  in  the 
world  was  no  disappointment.  A  soldier  in  uniform 
directs  us  through  a  rich  velvet  curtain  to  the  next 
stair  case.  Beautiful  women  elegantly  dressed  were 
removing  opera  cloaks  and  finely  dressed  men  were 
assisting  them.  None  except  those  in  full  dress  en- 

55 


ter  here  so  up  we  go,  marble  stair  case  after  marble 
stair  case  to  our  boxes"  high  up  in  the  house.  A  wo- 
man usher  shows  us  in  and  locks  the  box  door  after  us 
and  from  its  obscurity  we  look  out  on  the  great  stage 
with  its  velvet,  Mansfield-looking,  draped  curtain.  Ai 
orchestra  of  seventy  pieces  occupies  th*  orchestra, 
place  and  the  overture  to  S?:nt  Saens  "Samson  and 
Delilah"  has  begun.  The  music  claims  us  instantly. 
What  plaintive  sweet,  crying  notes  from  the  first  vio- 
lins and  how  the  throbbing  tones  of  the  two  harps  are 
felt  all  through  the  melody.  That  orchestra  was  a  joy. 
Such  beautiful  shading,  such  response  to  the  need  of  a 
great  climax  as  fairly  lifted  the  chorus  of  200  singers 
when  the  need  conies!  The  curtain  slides  out  of  sight, 
the  drop  curtain  rises  and  in  the  white  moonlight, 
the  terraces,  fountains,  palaces  and  groves  of  Delilah 
show.  There  must  be  promptness  for  another  opera 
follows  this.  From  beginning  to  end  the  detail  was 
perfection.  Lighting  colors,  costumes,  scenery— even 
to  floating  clouds,  running  waters  and  lightning;  mas- 
sing of  the  chorus,  movement  of  it,  all  as  exact  as  a 
problem  in  mathematics.  Poor  anger-tossed  Samson 
defies  hie  enemies.  His  voice  is  a  magnificent  baritone 
and  his  acting  is  as  dramatic  as  his  voice  is  fine.  He 
is  Wm.  Casset.  The  house  is  eagerly  responsive  and 
as  the  dramatic  climax  between  himself  and  the  con- 
tralto— Madame  Heylon-Delilah,  comes  it  grows  as 
still  as  death  and  breaks  into  a  roar  of  applause  ana 
"vivas!"  as  the  curtain  goes  down  after  an  exquisite 
duet  between  them. 

Our  woman  usher  brings  us  a  program  for  which, 
she  thriftily  makes  us  pay  a  franc  and  unlocks  out 
box.  We  go  out  to  look  down  at  the  finely  dressed 
people  who  throng  the  foyer,  then  take  a  look  at  the 
white,  gold  and  crimson  decorations  of  the  house. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  recalls  us  and,  two  minutes  after 
it  strikes,  the  curtain  is  up  for  the  next  scene.  What 
can  one  want  in  a  singer,  that  Madam  Heylon  hag 
not?  Grace,  beauty,  a  magnificent,  sympathetic  con- 
tralto voice,  splendid  acting  power  are  all  hers. 

We  listen  motionless  and  rapt  to  those  beautiful 
voices  not  "coming  to"  until  the  ballet  of  eighty,  in 
the  softest  tints,  have  made  color,  motion  and  musicf 
all  one  mystic  whole  for  us. 

We  heave  a  long  sigh  and  suddenly  realize  that  we 
are  tired  through  and  through  with  intense  feeling 
and  listening,  as  the  curtain  goes  down  on  the  finale. 
We  are  glad  of  a  rest  before  Leoncavallo's  "Paillasse" 

36 


begins.  It  is  done  with  the  same  finish  and  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  audience  shows  no  decrease  though 
midnight  is  past.  The  streets  are  as  crowded  and 
brilliant  as  we  drive  home  at  one  o'clock  as  they  were 
at  eight.  When  does  Paris  sleep?  We  almost  drop 
with  surprise  to  find  our  entire  hansom  bill  for  the 
evening  is  but  forty  cents,  for  our  hotel  is  two  miles 
from  the  opera  house  and  our  home  coming  very  late. 
But  the  fact  that  a  "restauration"  charged  us  for  the 
use  of  table-cloth  and  napkin  at  noon  serves  to  keep 
the  balance  even. 

The  next  morning  the  ram  still  pours.  Rain  or  no 
rain  we  decide  to  go  to  church  and  one  of  the  little 
Seine  boats  is  the  best  way.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryant 
make  a  fine  sprint  to  catch  the  first  one  and  we  began 
to  pass  empty  exposition  buildings.  All  sorts  of  craft 
pass  us  and  work  goes  on  everywhere  as  in  week 
days.  Women  work  at  washing  in  the  public  wash- 
stations  along  the  river  where  a  few  cents  bring  the 
privilege  of  using  all  necessary  appliances  for  doing 
such  work.  Public  bath  houses  are  frequent.  Here  ia 
tne  chamber  of  deputies  where  the  laws  of  France 
grow,  and  next  the  obelisk  marking  the  spot  where 
Marie  Antoinette  and  Robespiere,  with  thousands  of 
the  French  nobles  watered  the  soil  with  their  blood. 
Gay  as  it  is  how  blood-drenched  a  city  is  Paris! 

The  Concord  Bridge  shows  its  graceful  curve  ana 
we  look  with  interest  at  the  stones  of  the  old  Bastile 
of  which  it  is  built  and  think  of  the  human  misery 
they  have  hemmed  in. 

The  twin  towers  of  ftotre  Dame  show  through  the 
mist  and  soon  we  enter  its  beautiful  doors.  Very  im- 
pressive is  the  scene.  The  cathedral  is  draped  In 
mourning  for  the  pope.  Great  throngs  of  the  faithful 
are  here  and  every  little  chapel  on  either  side  the  im- 
mense nave  has  its  many  burning  candles  and  its* 
kneeling  worshippers.  The  massive  columns  are  wrap- 
ped in  black,  fringed  with  long  silver  fringe  and  band- 
ed at  the  top  with  silver  stripes  and  stars.  Between 
each  two  columns  are  black,  silver  fringed  draperies, 
looped  into  three  festoons  held  by  silver  cord  and  tas- 
sel. On  the  middle  one  and  at  the  top,  glow  the  pope's 
coat  of  arms  in  colors.  The  high  altar  is  an  immense 
catafalque  in  black  and  silver,  overhung  by  an  im- 
mense papal  crown  in  the  same  colors.  The  navf*  i* 
flHed  with  seats  for  the  dignitaries  who  are  to  attend 
the  ceremonies,  all  covered  in  silver  or  black  and 
silver. 


A  stir  in  tne  crowd  and  the  arch-bishop  of  Paris 
attended  by  a  brilliant  procession  led  by  the  most  im- 
pressive beadle  with  black  and  silver  crook  which  he 
strikes  on  the  floor  at  each  step,  comes  from  the  tran- 
sept, and  the  service  begins.  The  sweet  high  voices  of 
the  boy  soprani  soar  to  the  great  roof  and  all  the  pomp 
and  ceremony  of  a  great  church,  with  its  centuries  of 
history,  unfolds  itself  while  thousands  of  candles 
glimmer  and  the  rose,  gold,  and  green  of  the  beautiful 
windows  weave  flower  colors  in  the  air.  It  is  borne  in 
upon  us  again  how  great  a  man  is  the  pope,  more 
powerful  than  the  most  powerful  king.  As  we  pass 
the  old  man  by  the  pillar  who  sits  back  of  a  little 
ehrine  on  which  is  a  golden  bowl,  he  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly  dashes  holy  water  from  it  with  hi£  little 
brush,  upon  our  forehead,  cheeks  and  chest.  Startled 
we  find  the  spell  broken,  and  go  out  to  see  the  beauty 
of  The  Louvre  again. 


LONDON 

Midnight  finds  us  on  the  English  channel  an-3,  no  one 
could  have  persuaded  us,  in  our  wildest  moments  that 
water  could  behave  as  that  channel  did.  Running  over 
rock  heaps  with  an  electric  car  couldn't  have  jarred  us 
worse  nor  spilled  us  worse.  No  wonder  a  tunnel  un- 
der the  channel  is  always  being  talked  of. 

Morning  finds  us  on  English  soil,  rather  white  and 
frazzled  to  be  sure,  but  alive;  which  fact  is  rather  sur- 
prising to  all  of  us  in  consideration  of  the  night.  Now 
London,  great,  historic,  interesting  London  is  to  be 
our  abiding  place.  "Thank  heaven!"  sighs  a  non- 
French-speaking  gentleman  of  the  party,  "I'm  once 
more  in  a  country  where  I  can  tell  people  what  I  think 
of  them."  A  comment  which  speaks  volumes  for  his 
opinion  of  the  French  people. 

Two  hundred  and  thirty  miles  in  four  hours  and 
twenty  minutes  is  not  such  slow  going  after  all. 
That  was  the  way  the  Midland  Road  took  us  through 
the  most  vividly  green,  flower  covered  country,  to 
JLondon.  A  brilliant  blue  mist  showed  in  every  tree 
vista  and  the  high  rounded  Derbyshire  Hills  with 
their  little  checkers  of  wheat  and  oats  fields  were 
drowned  deep  in  it.  From  this  beautiful  country 
through  towns  that  looked  like  "spotless  towns"  in 
Sapolio  advertisements  we  suddenly  reach  by  way 


of  tunnels  Paddington  Station  in  London.  No  riding 
through  miles  of  suburbs,  here,  but  we  are  promptly 
landed  in  the  "heart  of  the  world." 

The  streets  are  gay  with  bunting,  English  flags, 
American  flags.  Great  streamers  of  red,  white  and 
blue,  mottoes  in  English  and  French  welcoming  Pres- 
ident Loubet  of  France,  lined  High  Holborn  and  Pic- 
adilly  Circus.  We  were  a  day  late  for  the  great  par- 
ade of  King  and  President  in  these  streets  but  thous- 
ands of  people  crowded  them  at  night  viewing  the 
decorations.  The  tops  of  the  great  double  decked 
omnibusses  were  filled  with  gaily  dressed  sightseers 
and  flags  fluttered  from  the  top  of  each  of  the  hund- 
reds of  these  most  entrancing  vehicles.  "Punch  and 
Judy"  shows  killed  the  devil  in  side  street,  under 
flaring  gasoline  lights;  tumblers  in  rather  soiled  tights 
spread  a  cloth  recklessly  in  the  crowded  street  and 
tied  themselves  into  animated  human  knots  while  long 
lines  of  vehicles  drove  carefully  around  them  and  the 
crowd  applauded.  Detachments  of  horse  guards  in 
scarlet  coats,  on  black  horses  paraded  solemnly  with 
clanking  of  gold  chains;  Scotch  "kilties"  in  their 
plaid  kilts  stalked  haughtily  about;  on  all  sides  were 
color,  motion,  life.  Bands  and  piano  organs— which 
played,  "Coon,  Coon,  Coon;"  "The  Good  Old  Summer 
Time",  enlivened  any  otherwise  dull  moment,  and  at 
the  end  of  this  gay  street  loomed  St.  Paul's  great  dome 
soaring  into  the  blue  English  sky.  Talk  about  fascin- 
ating Paris!  Nothing  could  exceed  the  charm  of  this 
grim,  gray  old  London  which  has  wrought,  suffered, 
accomplished,  dared  for  hundreds  of  years!  And 
of  all  the  charming  things  to  do  in  this  delightful 
place  to  ride  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  through  busy 
crowds  down  miles  and  miles  of  streets,  every  foot 
of  which  makes  history  and  literature  live  is  the  most 
thrilling. 

Next  day  sees  us  in  the  British  Museum.  As  we 
enter  the  hall,  we  are  smillingly  greeted  by  the  Mess- 
ners  of  Cedar  Rapids.  Imagine  our  surprise!  They 
are  probably  the  only  people  we  knew  in  all  Lon- 
don. What  a  storehouse  of  treasures  the  museum 
is!  We  see  the  real  Rossetti  stone,  the  mummy  of 
Rameses  II,  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  Elgin  Marbles, 
the  wonderful  tomb  of  the  greatest  king  of  Asia 
Minor  who  ruled  373  B.  C.,  beautiful  hand  illumined 
books  and  rare  manuscripts.  We  look  at  the  original 
manuscript  of  Coleridge's  "Hymn  to  Sunrise,"  By- 


ron's  "Childe  Harold,"  Gray's  "Elegy,"  and  then  are 
taken  solemnly  and  silently  to  view — in  a  room  by 
itself — the  famous  "Magna  Charta."  We  see  hund- 
reds of  copies  of  early  printed  books;  mummies  ga- 
lore, including  mummies  of  the  sacred  cats  of  Egypt. 
Poor  little  pussies!  They  have  now  most  beautifully 
gilded  and  gem  decorated  mummy  cases!  Our  last 
and  most  exciting  viewing  is  of  the  Portland  vase. 
Surprise  is  no  word  fon  our  sensation  when  we  see 
the  little  Wedgwood  looking  thing  which  is  so  jeal- 
ously guarded. 

In  the  evening  we  "rest  off  our  minds,"  by  going  to 
see  Madame  Tussaud's  wax  works.  A  ride  of  several 
miles  on  top  of  the  omnibus  brings  us  to  the  immense 
building  in  which  the  works  are  housed.  It  is  all 
plush,  velvet,  mirrors  and  gilt,  with  marble  floors 
and  pillars.  An  orchestra  in  most  remarkably  "giddy" 
plush  uniforms  plays  classical  music.  We  distinguish 
ourselves  by  trying  to  buy  a  catalogue  of  a  remark- 
ably life-like  wax  figure,  and  revenge  ourselves  by 
giggling  at  the  same  feat  performed  by  the  people 
following  us  and  then  plunge  into  the  excitement  of 
the  exhibition. 

The  figures  are  very  life-like,  indeed,  and  wear 
real  clothes  of  the  finest  kind.  The  Paris  gowns  of 
the  queen  and  her  court  ladies  are  fairly  ravish- 
ing. We  gaze  on  William  First,  John  Wycliffe,  Henry 
V,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Benjamin  Franklin,  the  Emperor 
of  China,  Tennyson  and  scores  of  others.  Mr.  Grier 
sits  down  to  rest  and  two  strange  ladies  approach. 
"It  is,"  says  one.  "No,  he  isn't,"  says  the  other. 
The  first  one  approaches  more  closely.  "Yes,  he  is 
one,"  she  says.  The  second  also  approaches  very 
close,  indeed.  A  sudden  not  possible-to-suppress 
sneeze  from  Mr.  G,  a  scream,  and  a  rush  across  the 
room  by  the  two  ladies  finishes  the  scene.  Miss 
Gurley's  Chicago  nerve  won't  stand  the  "Chamber  of 
Horrors,"  so  she  is  left  and  we  go  alone,  down  long 
dark  stairs,  lighted  by  dim  lanterns,  past  dungeon 
doors  where  men  die  in  agony,  past  rows  of  murder- 
ers, death  bed  scenes,  beheaded  ladies,  to  the  room 
where  are  the  axe  that  beheaded  a  thousand,  the 
instruments  of  torture  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition,  the 
ropes  that  hung  murderers.  It  is  curlding,  horrible.  A 
side  on  the  top  of  another  bus  through  gaily  lighted 
streets  and  we  sleep  to  dream  of  wax  people  in  a 
wax  land. 

40 


NOTABLE  BUILDINGS 

Three  more  notable  buildings  than  Westminster 
Abbey,  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  the  Parliament  houses 
would  be  hard  to  find  in  any  city;  one,  the  tomb  of  the 
great  dead,  the  next  the  place  of  worship  for  the 
great  livdng,  the  third,  the  working  place  of  the 
leaders  of  ^the  nation,  make  them  objects  of  interest 
to  all  the  great  army  of  visitors  in  London.  To  be- 
gin with  the  Parliament  building.  The  favorite  om- 
nibus—green in  color— takes  us  from  the  First  Avenue 
Hotel  on  High  Holborn,  through  a  narrow,  dark 
little  cross  street  filled  with  stores  containing  all 
sorts  of  law  books,  past  the  great  law  buildings,  out 
to  the  bustle  and  rush  of  one  of  the  great  arteries 
of  London.  Down  past  the  Hotel  Cecil  with  its  doz- 
ens of  waiting  cabs,  past  the  "American  Quick  Lunch 
Place",  where  a  real  giant  seven  feet  tall  baked  big 
pancakes  in  a  window  and  Americans  inside  ate 
them  while  Americans  outside  gazed  in  smiling,  we 
go  to  Trafalgar  Square.  Here  the  great  Landseer 
Lions  lie  facing  the  National  Gallery  and  the  lovely 
fountain  before  it,  gazing  calm-eyed  on  all  the  thous- 
ands of  vehicles  and  tens  of  thousands  of  people 
that  pass.  We  see  here  people  from  India,  from 
Burmah,  from  Australia,  Scotch  soldiers  in  kilts, 
horse  guards,  volunteers,  Japanese,  Russians,  French, 
Italians,  Swedes,  Germans.  A  polyglot  city,  surely,  is 
London.  A  change  of  omnibus,  a  drive  of  ten  min- 
utes through  still  more  crowded  streets  past  the  bar- 
racks of  the  king's  horse  guards  where  two  gorgeous 
figures  in  shining  black  horses-  mount  guard — motion- 
less—  at  each  gate,  past  a  fire  company  whose  ap- 
paratus is  kept  underground  in  the  middle  of  the 
crowded  street  while  the  company  keeps  watch  from 
a  little  house  built  over  the  stored  apparatus,  and 
the  beautiful  airy  square  towers  of  the  Parliament 
building  are  in  view.  What  splendid  buildings!  En- 
closed by  a  high  ornamental  fence  set  off.  by  green 
lawn  on  one  side,  the  Thames  back  of  them  and  the 
everlasting  stream  of  humanity  crossing  the  fine 
bridge  at  their  river  corner,  they  give  an  air  of  dig- 
nity and  beauty  to  the  crowded  streets.  The  great 
entrance  hall  and  splendid  marble  staircase  add  to 
our  impressions  of  the  beauty  of  these  palaces  of 
government.  It  is  a  sunshiny  day  and  the  rooms 
are  alive  with  the  colors  of  the  rich  stained  glass. 

An  officer  takes  us  in  charge  and  we  go  into  the 

41 


king's  robing  room  in  which  he  prepares  to  meet 
parliament.  It  has  two  most  beautiful  paintings  on 
its  walls— one,  Yokes'  "Sir  Tristram."  Through  the 
royal  gallery  with  its  statues  and  paintings,  through 
the  prince's  chamber  to  the  House  of  Lords  we  go, 
chased  off  each  leather  covered  couch,  with  which 
rooms  and  corridors  are  lined,  in  which  we  try  to 
rest,  by  a  stern  policeman.  Here  in  the  House  of 
Lords  is  the  same  beauty  in  elaborate  carvings,  fres- 
coes, paintings,  stained  glass.  The  high  chairs  art 
surmounted  by  gilt  crowns;  that  of  the  presiding  of- 
ficer is  also.  The  room  seems  small  considering  its 
use  and  has  no  conveniences  of  desk  room  as  one 
would  expect.  Out  we  go,  with  scores  of  other  Amer- 
icans, to  the  Peer's  Lobby  in  which  are  the  coat  hang- 
ers and  hooks,  each  with  the  name  of  the  peer  above 
it.  We  hunt  up  Lord  Salisbury's  not  realizing  how 
death  will  soon  take  him  to  other  duties  and  wider 
life.  Through  the  Peer's  corridor  with  its  fine  pic- 
tures, to  the  central  hall  we  go,  to  look  at  the  fine 
carved  ceiling.  Many  statues  gleam  white  in  it  and 
we  realize  that  we  are  in  the  center  of  the  place 
in  which  are  planned  the  workings  of  one  of  the 
greatest  governments  the  world  has  ever  known. 

The  House  of  Commons  corridor  and  lobby  are  a 
repetition  of  the  beauty  of  the  Peer's  side.  The  queer 
canopied  chairs  of  the  door  keepers  of  the  house  at- 
tract us  and  the  omnipresent  policeman  extracts  us 
from  them  and  starts  us  through  the  door  into  the 
house  of  commons.  Long,  red  covered  leather  bench- 
es, no  place  to  write  or  put  books,  a  narrow  aisle  sep- 
arating one  side  from  the  other,  beautifully  carved 
overhanging  galleries,  a  splendid  dark  old  oak  ceil- 
ing, rich  reds  and  yellows  in  the  great  windows,  make 
up  our  impression  of  it.  The  chair  of  the  presiding 
officer  is  on  the  lowest  floor  space  and  the  benches 
rise  in  tiers  from  it.  We  see  the  room  of  the  leader 
of  the  house,  the  division  lobby,  the  library,  then  go 
to  St.  Stephen's  ihall  and  porch.  Most  impressive  is 
the  beauty  of  the  celling,  carved  in  fan  traceries,  up- 
held by  its  slender  clustered  shafts.  Westminster 
hall  shows  another  beautifully  carved  oak  ceiling. 
We  then  go  down  to  see  the  crypt  where,  from 
slender  single  shafts,  springs  another  carved  ceiling 
in  great  arches.  Here  we  see  the  spot  where  Guy 
Fawkes  put  his  fuse  to  fire  the  barrels  of  gun- 
powder concealed  underneath  and  meant  to  wreck  the 

42 


place.  Much  history  has  this  part  seen,  for  it  was 
built  by  Edward  I.  It  is  now  fitted  up  as  a  beau- 
tiful chapel.  How  one's  history  "comes  alive"  in  such 
a  place!  It  is  time  to  leave.  Weeks  would  not  ex- 
haust the  beauties  and  interest  of  the  place  and 
why  try  to  do  it  in  hours? 

Sunday  morning  sees  us  on  top  of  the  omnibus  go- 
ing to  St.  Paul's  to  service.  The  great  chimes  are 
clashing  and  pealing  as  we  come  from  the  little 
side  alley  into  the  old  church  yard,  and  crowds  of 
people  hurry  in  at  the  great  side  door.  A  very  pom- 
pous beadle  with  a  long  silver  crook  ushers  people  tc 
seats  and  the  vast  nave  is  half -filled  by  the  audience, 
mainly  sight  seers. 

The  gold  and  red  of  the  new  reredos  shows 
well  against  the  somber  plainness  of  the  rest  of 
the  vast  edifice.  The  great  dome  seems  to  float  in  the 
air  high  above  us.  So  cold  it  is,  that  some  of  the 
less  devout  take  the  little  mats  intended  for  kneeling 
upon,  lay  them  on  the  marble  floor  and  set  benumbed 
feet  upon  them.  The  low  cane  seated  chairs  with  the 
stiff  narrow  back  and  a  wide  flat  rail  on  top  are 
very  uncomfortable.  The  chimes  cease  and  the 
great  organ,  built  on  both  sides  of  the  chancel  fills 
the  vast  space  with  its  lovely  song  of  Mendelssohn's 
and  we  forget  all  the  vastness,  all  the  "white,  gleam- 
ing tablets  and  monuments,  all  the  amazing  height  of 
the  great  dome,  in  the  flood  of  melody.  Then  there 
rises  the  clear,  sweet,  pure,  soaring  voice  of  the  bo? 
soprano,  "Hear  Thou  Our  Prayer."  It  is  so  ex- 
quisite, it  seems  angelic.  Then  the  choir  chants  the 
service  which  is  antiphonal,  the  men  answering  th« 
clear,  sweet,  mellow  voices  of  the  boys  in  the  grand, 
centuries-old  Church- of -England  ritual.  The  music 
is  most  impressive.  When  the  "May  the  Souls  of  the 
Departed  Rest  in  Peace"  comes  sweet  and  strong 
from  the  choir,  "Rest  in  Peace"  is  echoed  from  floor, 
walls  ana  dome  of  the  great  sanctuary  and  the 
"House  of  the  Lord"  literally  did  "Sing  His  Praise." 
After  each  phrase,  the  singers  waited  for  the  superb 
response  made  by  the  cathedral.  A  short  sermon  by 
the  dean  of  St.  Paul's,  a  lovely  anthem,  and  the  throng 
walks  down  the  longest  nave  in  the  world,  past  Wel- 
lington's great  monument,  under  the  carved  flowers 
in  stone  that  deck  each  pillar,  into  the  sunshine  of  a 
London  Sabbath. 

But   the    flower   of   the    three   buildings    is   West- 

43 


minster.  It  is  Saturday  morning  when  the  tower  door 
swing's  open  for  our  first  visit.  A  burst  of  melody 
from  the  splendid  organ,  the  lovely  voices  of  the 
choir,  light  from  the  rich  colored  glass  windows  drift- 
ing across  white  monument  and  tablet,  the  ghosts  of 
all  English  history  crowding  the  space,  between  mon- 
uments, such  was  our  greeting  from  Westminster. 
It  is  the  splendily  carved,  impressive,  dignified,  beau- 
tiful shrine  of  what  a  great  people  has  done.  Poet's 
Corner  where  Scott,  Goldsmith,  Dickens,  Bums, 
Shakespeare,  Tennyson,  Jennie  Lind  and  Handel  bear 
each  other  company  in  tablet  or  bust  is  crowded  with 
Americans.  Henry  VII.'s  chapel  with  its  fan-traceried 
marble  ceiling,  the  finest  in  the  world,  holds  the  sleep- 
ing kings  and  queens  and  the  coronation  chair  of 
Edward  VII,  with  its  old  Stone  of  Scone  under  it. 
This  chair  is  an  object  of  great  interest  and  always 
has  a  crowd  about  it.  We  follow  our  fine  looking 
English  curate  through  the  other  beautiful  chapels, 
go  into  the  old  chapter  house,  out  into  the  old  cloisters 
that  look  out  upon  the  quiet  of  the  dean's  yard  and 
hear,  faintly,  the  giant  roar  of  London  as  we  think 
of  all  the  centuries  of  valor,  cowardice,  achievement 
and  failure  which  this  stately  and  lovely  place  has 
seen.  An  English  woman  with  lips  trembling  with 
grief,  reads  a  little  tablet  set  in  the  age  blackened 
stone  of  the  old  cloister.  The  names  of  great  ones  are 
on  either  side.  As  the  lady  moves  slowly  away  to 
look  out  upon  the  quiet  and  peace  of  the  cloister- en- 
closed green  yard,  we  read  "Jane  Lister,  dear  childe, 
aged  9—,  17—." 

Hearts  are  the  same  in  all  centuries  and  here 
is  an  old,  old  heart  break  set  for  all  who  grieve  for 
children  gone,  in  the  time  blackened  walls  of  one  of 
the  greatest  monuments  to  human  glory.  Most 
blessed  the  memory  of  a  "dear  childe,"  be  the  tab- 
let in  Westminster  or  elsewhere  in  this  sad,  old  world. 


HISTORIC  PLACES  IN  LONDON 

Saturday  is  our  "busy  day."  In  the  forenoon  we 
see  the  Parliament  buildings,  eat  lunch  at  an  A.  B. 
C.  restaurant,  short  for  Areated  Bread  Company's 
restaurant,  where  we  pay  two  pennies  for  butter, 
fivepence  for  bread,  sixpence  for  a  "lemon  squash." 
"Lemon  squash"  is  a  drink  calculated  to  bring  on 
"perforation  of  the  anatomy,"  since  it  is  citric  acid 

44 


In  water  with  not  any  sugrar.  Everything  is  clean  and 
the  girl  waiters  in  white  aprons  and  black  dresses  are 
"slow  but  sure." 

After  luncheon  the  open  landaus  call  for  us,  with 
liveried  driver  on  box,  at  the  First  Avenue  Hotel  and 
the  party  arranges  itself  for  a  drive.  It  is  pretty  hard 
to  "keep  next"  in  such  a  crowded  street  as  High 
Holborn.  First  is  a  low,  peaked-gabled  wooden 
house — the  last  bit  of  old  London — about  five  hundred 
years  old.  It  makes  one  feel  young.  Then  at  the 
"parting  of  the  ways"  is  Theodore  Parker's  church; 
further  down  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  old  Newgate 
Prison  where  debtors  were  confined  and  which  Charles 
Dickens  made  famous.  St.  Paul's  shows  its  beautiful, 
floating  dome — old  "St.  Martin's  Le  Grand" — black 
with  age — looks  very  small  by  compafrisonj  The 
beautiful  perpendicular  spire  of  Bow  Bells  church 
shows  against  the  blue  and  we  understand  why  arch- 
itects say  it  is  one  of  the  finest  proportoned  towers  in 
all  England.  Somebody  talks  about  Dick  Whittington 
— mayor  of  London — and  how  everybody  born  within 
sound  of  Bow  Bells  is  a  cockney. 

Up  a  ilttle  short  street  with  pigeons  walking  se- 
dately about  on  its  old  flagged  pavement  is  the  old 
Guildhall  where  the  governing  body  of  London 
has  its  sessions  and  the  king,  a  few  days  before,  had 
given  his  great  banquet  to  President  Loubet.  The 
stained  glass  is  very  rich  and  makes  beautiful  colors 
on  the  great  ugly  statues  of  Gog  and  Magog  which 
frown  from  one  end  of  the  hall  as  the  guide  tells  us 
what  part  of  Guildhall  escaped  the  Great  Fire;  where 
President  Lou-bet  sat,  where  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Lon- 
don sits  at  he  great  banquets. 

A  short  distance  down  the  street  is  a  rather  grimy- 
looking,  three  story,  stone  house,  with  four  gas  posts 
on  its  uncovered  porch,  which  is  the  residence  of  the 
Lord  Mayor.  He  must  be  a  man  of  strong  nerves  to 
live  where  such  a  great  and  constant  stream  of  people 
and  vehicles  flows  past. 

Everybody  looks  hard  at  the  gray  stone  building 
(with  iron  bars  at  each  window)  which  is  the  "com- 
mercial center  of  the  world" — the  Bank  of  England. 
Across  the  street  is  the  Royal  Exchange  and  a  few 
prosperous  looking  old  English  gentlemen  of  portly 
build,  with  high  silk  hats,  white  "mutton-chop" 
whiskers— very  red  cheeks  and  good  clothes— stroll 
down  its  steps. 

45 


Tramping  passt  go  great  groups  of  young,  rather 
thin  men  in  kaiki  uniform,  with  broad  brimmed  hat 
caught  up  on  one  side,  and  rifle  in  hand.  They  are 
the  volunteers  going  out  to  Hyde  Park  to  drill.  They 
look  small  and  rather  insignificant. 

Here  is  old  Distaff  Lane  of  history.  We  pass  the. 
splendid  Blackfriar's  station  and  bridge  then  turn  to 
th3  Thames  embankment.  It  is  a  very  broad  drive 
along  the  Thames  with  a  fine  walk,  walled  in,  next  the 
river.  The  Thames  is  a  surprise  in  that  it  seems  dead. 
There  is  no  traffic  on  it  at  all.  Only  a  few  barges  lie 
moored  at  the  landings. 

Here  is  the  Temple  church,  Temple  Bar,  Somerset 
House,  where  all  wills  are  recorded,  and  the  center  of 
such  interests;  Waterloo  bridge — Cleopatra's  needle 
between  two  sphinxes — Whitehall  court,  the  new  Scot- 
land Yards,  where  the  detective  work  of  the  city  is 
done,  St.  James  Park,  the  Foreign  colonial  offices  with 
the  American  flag  flying  from  our  own  embassy,  the 
residence  of  the  prime  minister,  a  dingy  looking,  two 
story  place.  Marlborough  House,  the  residence  of  the 
prince  of  Wales,  where  tents  fill  the  yard  and  a  bril- 
liant garden  party  is  in  progress  comes  next.  Then, 
a  litter  later  King  Edward's  palace  with  its  very  high 
wall  surmounted  by  spikes — its  sentries,  in  red  coats 
(in  the  sentry  boxes),  standing  perfectly  motionless, 
to  our  great  surprise.  The  gardens  of  the  palace  are 
lovely  with  the  greenest  of  sward,  brightest  of  flow- 
ers, and  fine  old  trees,  but  the  palace  looks,  not  in  the 
least  like  a  palace,  but  like  the  great,  rambling  old 
house  it  is.  What  a  fall  to  our  dreams  of  the  palace 
in  which  a  king  must  live. 

We  take  a  peep  at  Rotten  Row  later,  where  long 
rows  of  horsemen  and  women  ride  solemnly  on  their 
"docked"  horses,  under  the  fine  trees,  with  no  vehicle 
to  molest,  for  none  are  allowed  on  this  drive.  The 
horses  are  beautiful,  the  people  less  so,  the  scene  not 
especially  gay.  Barrie's  "Little  White  Bird"  made  us 
look  very  interestedly  at  Kensington  Gardens  and  well 
did  they  repay  our  interest  with  rich  bloom  and  lovely 
trees  of  all  kinds.  We  find  out  that  the  flats  near  are 
called  "mansions"  and  they  have  knockers  and  electric 
bells,  a  queer  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern.  Here 
are  a  fine  group  of  buildings:  The  work  houses — the 
Museum  of  Natural  History,  an  immense  place;  the 
Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  the  Museum  of  Fine 
Arts;  the  Imperial  Institute,  the  Duke  of  Westmin- 
ster's town  house.  This  youg  man  is  the  richest  land 

46 


owner  in  England  and  has  just  come  of  age.  We  are 
dissappointed  that  we  can  see  but  little  of  the  Prince 
Albert  Memorial,  for  what  we  can  see  of  its  gleaming 
whiteness  is  lovely  but  the  rest  is  and  has  been  scaf- 
folded for  three  years,  being  cleaned,  and  it  is  about 
one-fourth  done.  Dozens  of  other  interesting  places 
we  see  but  mail  carriers  are  making  the  6  o'clock  col- 
lection in  their  coarse  gray  bags — just  ordinary  bags — 
not  mail  pouches — which  they  carry  swung  over  the 
shoulder,  so  to  the  hotel  for  our  seven  course  dinner 
which  will  leave  us  hungry,  we  go.  We  know  we  shall 
go  out  into  the  street  after  it  and  buy  a  pound  of 
those  great,  walnut-sized,  sweet  delicate-flavored 
strawberries  for  threepence  (six  cents)  and  eat  every 
one  of  them. 

After,  we  go  to  old  Drury  Lane  Theater  to  see  Sir 
Henry  Irving  in  Sardou's  "Dante."  We  find  women  in 
box  offices  or  "booking  offices"  as  they  are  called, 
women  with  black  aprons  and  white  caps  acting  as 
ushers  and  selling  programs  for  a  six-pence  (12  cents) 
each.  We  also  find  that  tickets  to  "the  pit"  what  we 
in  America  call  "the  parquet,"  are  the  cheapest  being 
one  shilling  (twenty-five  cents.)  We  decided  to  sit  in 
the  first  balcony— known  to  Londoners  as  "the  family 
circle,"  and  pay  six  shillings  accordingly.  The  the- 
ater is  about  as  large  as  McVicker's  and  is  in  red  and 
gold,  with  a  draw  curtain  over  the  drop  curtain,  a-la- 
Mansfield. 

On  the  backs  of  the  chairs  are  little  boxes  with 
slots  in  them  with  the  price  to  be  put  into  the  slot 
specified.  A  shilling  brings  out  on  opera  glass,  a  six- 
pence chocolate  bon  bons.  The  girl  ushers  sell  "lem- 
on-squash" at  a  shilling  a  glass,  also  tea  and  coffee  at 
a  six-pence  per  cup  between  acts.  A  fine  orchestra  of 
40  pieces  is  playing  the  overture  to  "Poet  and  Peasant" 
as  we  are  seated  and  a  moment  after  the  curtain  goes 
up  on  the  splendid  stage  setting  of  the  first  act.  Those 
who  like  to  have  "something  doing"  every  ten  minutes 
in  a  play  would  certainly  be  delighted  with  "Dante" 
and  any  playgoer  who  likes  splendid  costumes,  action, 
fine  stage  settings,  elaborate  scenic  effects,  careful  at- 
tention to  detail,  fine  acting,  certainly  has  all  these. 
From  the  tragic  beginning  with  the  starving  miser  in 
the  first  act,  through  the  awful  death  scene  of  the  Car- 
dinal in  the  third,  to  the  whole  staging  of  Dante's 
"Inferno"  in  the  last  act,  one  sits  stiff  and  breathless 
with  emotion.  As  the  curtain  goes  down  on  the  last 
act,  the  audience  rises  and  cheers,  claps,  waves  hand- 

47 


kerchiefs,  calls,  until  Sir  Henry  has  responded  to  six 
such  calls.  At  the  seventh,  he  says  as  sadly  as 
though  he  were  pronouncing  a  death  sentence,  "I 
thank  you,"  and  stalks  off.  The  streets  are  alight  and 
gay  as  we  go  back  through  the  Old  London  toward  our 
hotel.  The  "Pubs" — short  for  saloons — are  wide  open. 
We  count,  lined  up  at  a  bar,  drinking,  forty  people,  of 
whom  sixteen  are  children  below  sixteen  years  of  age. 
and  women  lurch  along  the  streets.  We  had  seen  no 
drunkenness  in  London  before,  though  we  had  seen 
plenty  of  drinking.  Here  is  the  secret  of  much  of 
London's  poverty  and  misery  though  her  poverty  and 
misery  are  no  doubt,  largely  accountable  for  the  drink- 
ing. How  much  are  we  "civilized"  after  all? 

How  can  one  tell  all  that  one  does  in  such 
an  interesting  place  as  London?  Our  party 
worked  industriously,  but  what  we  saw  was  as  a  grain 
of  sand  on  the  seashore  to  what  we  did  not  see. 

We  saw  the  King  and  Queen,  Princess  Victoria,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  Lord  Roberts,  Lord  Salisbury,  Jo- 
seph Chamberlain,  dozens  of  army  officers  of  high 
rank  all  looking  just  as  their  pictures  in  magazine 
and  newspapers  make  them.  No  picture  could  do  jus- 
tice to  the  sweetness,  grace  and  beauty  of  the  Queen. 
She  is  one's  ideal  of  everything  womanly  and  queenly, 
bless  her!  The  King  looks  the  rather  fat,  very  digni- 
fied, Englishman  of  rank  with  a  splendid  shaped  head. 
The  omnibus  driver  confided  to  us  that  "A  King's  all 
very  well,  mum,  but  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  we 
'as  a  ruler  we  loves  like  old  Queen  Vic,  if  she  was  a 
loidy."  We  ride  ecstatic  miles  on  the  tops  of  omni- 
buses in  the  seat  next  the  driver;  we  see  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell  in  her  own  theater  in  "The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,"  and  a  most  beautiful  woman  she  is.  Ev- 
ery movement  is  grace  itself  and  her  acting  ie  finish- 
ed, quiet,  powerful;  helped  out  by  a  most  wonder- 
fully pathetic  velvety,  flexible  voice  used  as  Modjeska 
used  hers.  It  is  a  heart-breaking  play. 

Sir  Henry  Irving's  son  plays  in  his  theater,  "The 
Admirable  Crichton"  and  makes  many  friends  in  the 
doing  it.  The  Music  Halls  are  wonderfully  interesting, 
the  fireworks  out  at  Crystal  Palace  on  the  night  of 
"Bank  Holiday"  are  most  magnificent.  Mrs.  Alma 
Jones,  sister  of  Mr.  Jones  on  First  avenue,  who  is  the 
best  maker  of  Edison  records  in  the  world,  comes 
down  to  the  First  Avenue  and  delights  the  party  by 
singing  to  us  in  her  big,  rich  contralto  voice.  She 
sings  at  Drury  Lane  theater  the  next  week  and  says 

-18 


she  likee  to  do  it  and  intends  to  come  to  America  to 
sing  some  day.  We  devoutly  hope  she  may.  It  was 
a  most  gracious  act  of  courtesy  to  the  party,  by  a 
very  busy  woman  and  we  thank  both  Mrs.  Alma  who 
sang1  to  UB,,  and  Alice  Jones  of  Cedar  Rapids  who 
brought  her,  for  a  most  enjoyable  evening.  We  go 
out  to  "Ampstead  'Eath"  and  see  that  great  park  with 
its  rolling-  lawns,  grazing  sheep,  little  coster  carts, 
and  thousands  of  Londoners  enjoying  a  bit  of  country 
and  looking  out  over  the  splendid  panorama  of  Lon- 
don and  its  blue  hills  on  the  horizon  from  its  highest 
point. 

We  go  down  to  Petticoat  Lane  Sunday  morning  and 
see  every  article  possible  to  name  on  sale  in  little  carts 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  or  from  the  floors  of  the 
single-room  stores  about  9  by  10  ft.  on  which  the  goods 
are  stored  in  heaps. 

But  the  art  galleries!  The  National,  Tait's,  The  Na- 
tional Portrait,  The  Dore  Collection,  the  Svane  Col- 
lection, all  gave  us  rapturous  hours.  "Christus"  wae 
on  exhibition  at  The  Dore  gallery.  As  one  walked  to- 
ward it  the  eyes  were  closed  in  the  worn,  dead  face, 
but  suddenly  they  op«ned  and  body  and  heart  beat 
stopped  for  the  instant,  as  those  eyes  looked  straight 
into  one's  soul  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  make  one 
the  sole  author  of  all  that  sorrow  and  death.  It  is  a 
strange  picture,  indeed.  The  National  Gallery,  facing 
Landseer's  Great  Lions,  attracted  us  for  its  splendid 
collection  of  Constable's  landscapes;  its  Gainsbor- 
roughs,  its  Greuze's  "Girl  with  The  Apple,"  its  Ho- 
garth's "Shrimp  Girl,"  its  Landseer's  animals.  its 
Millaises,  its  Reynoldses,  but  most  of  all  its  wonderful 
collection  of  Turners.  Such  glory  of  color  as  can  not 
be  imagined,  is  his.  One  never  knows  of  what  beauty 
color  is  capable  until  it  glows  for  him  on  Turner's 
canvasses. 

The  Tait  Gallery  makes  one  love  Watts,  Burne- 
Jones,  Rossetti,  Landseer,  Leighton.  and  many  a  less 
known  man  as  one  had  never  expected  to  love  any 
painter's  work.  The  hours  in  the  galleries  were  hours 
of  unalloyed  bliss  stopped  only  because  the  floors  be- 
gan to  come  up  and  the  walls  to  whirl,  through  one's 
fatigue. 

We  rose  in  the  early  dawn  and  rushed  to  Covent 
Garden  market  with  Miss  Gurley  to  see  miles  and 
miles  of  fruit,  vegetables,  and  flowers.  Flowers  of 
every  kind  that  ever  grew  in  long,  many  colored,  de- 
liciously  scented  rows  that  stretched  for  tempting 

4& 


block  after  block  and  lured  us  until  a  mad  race  for 
breakfast  resulted.  A  great  handful  of  yellow  sweet 
peas  was  our  trophy  while  Miss  Gurley  carried  two 
great  bunches  of  brilliant  and  fragrant  roses.  The 
ungrateful  party  received  our  flower  offerings  with 
fierce  reproaches  that  they  had  not  been  taken  along; 
all  forgetful  of  the  Herculean  effort  necessary  to  drag 
one  tired  sightseer  from  her  couch  at  that  early  hour, 
let  alone  a  party  of  twenty-five. 

We  went  to  "The  Tower"  one  beautiful  morning,  en- 
tered by  The  Traitor's  Gate  and  walked  toward  The 
Bloody  Tower,  past  the  gun  carriage  on  which  Eng- 
lish seamen  drew  the  casket  of  Queen  Victoria  at 
that  great  funeral  which  gave  all  England  the  heart- 
ache. We  were  taken  in  charge  by  an  old  soldier  in 
the  uniform  of  "The  Yeoman  of  the  Guard."  And 
very  queer  he  looked  in  his  old  "bonnet,"  and  long 
skirted  waist,  with  spear  held  in  hand  as  he  strutted 
before  us  with  more  dignity  than  ever  any  king  had. 
We  went  up  into  the  White  Tower  planned  by  William 
the  Conqueror,  in  1216,  up  to  the  King's  Banqueting 
Hall,  we  saw  the  axe  that  beheaded  the  unhappy 
prisoners,  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  arms  of  all 
kinds  covering  walls  and  ceiling,  the  many  coats  of 
armor  worn  by  the  great  in  battle,  knights,  Henry  the 
Seventh,  Henry  the  Eighth,  Robert  Dudley.  Out  in  the 
great  court  where  hundreds  of  volunteers  tramped 
about  drilling,  we  saw  the  spot  where  Anne  Boleyn, 
Queen  Katherine  Howard  and  poor  Lady  Jane  Grey 
were  beheaded.  Down  in  the  little  chapel  of  "St.  Peter 
in  Chains"  we  went  and  walked  up  to  the  altar  in 
front  of  which  lie,  in  one  common  grave,  the  bones  of 
the  thirty-one  nobles  of  England  who  were  beheaded 
in  The  Tower,  including  the  three  unhappy  Queens, 
Then  we  see  the  Crown  Jewels  and  go  away  to  a  well 
earned  lunch,  all  the  ghosts  of  our  English  History 
having  "come  alive"  and  walked  about  with  us  in  this 
haunted  place. 

Luncheon  would  not  have  been  so  necessary  had  we 
not  gone  up  into  the  tower  in  which  all  the  unhappy 
prisoners  were  confined.  Up  steep,  dark,  worn  wind- 
ing stone  stairs  to  the  little  low- ceiled  rooms  we  went. 
Such  little  slits  of  windows  through  the  thick  stone 
walls.  Such  pathetic  markings  on  the  stone  showing 
hope  deferred.  Here,  in  this  Beauchamp  Tower  Rob- 
ert Dudley,  Peverel,  The  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Philip  How- 
ard, the  four  brothers  of  Dudley,  Geffreye  Poole,  and  a 
long  list  of  others  have  cut  their  own  memorials  into 

50 


the  walls  of  their  prison.  Under  the  stairs  were  found 
the  bones  of  the  little  Princess  of  The  Tower,  now 
resting  in  Westminster.  What  misery  these  old  walls 
have  hemmed  in!  What  misery! 

Luncheon  drives  away  the  ghosts  and  we  go  back  to 
L'ondon  proper.  We  go  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  a 
beautiful  old  park,  where  Charles  Dickens,  Lamb  and 
many  others  of  those  who  "see  visions  and  interpret 
them  to  other  men"  had  sat  and  strolled.  We  sat,  in 
the  waning  twilight  under  one  of  the  magnificent  old 
trees  which  dated  back  to  those  times  and  saw  those 
creatures  of  Charles  Dickens'  brain  flit  about  in  the 
growing  darkness  unseen  by  the  children  playing  gai- 
ly in  their  midst.  Just  a  square  down  is  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop.  Such  a  tiny  little  place!  We  get  to 
"Sairy  Gamp's"  house  just  in  time,  for  it  is  being  torn 
down.  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  goes  this  spring.  One 
of  the  party  remarked  with  a  pleased  air  that  she 
"was  so  glad  she  came  this  summer.  Everything  eld 
would  be  gone  by  next." 

How  can  one  tell  all  one  did  in  such  a  historic,  liter- 
ary, musical  treasury  as  London's.  We  took  all  sorts 
of  charming  strolls  with  history  unfolding  itself  at 
each  step.  We  haunted  literary  land  marks.  We  were 
ecstatic  every  moment  and  tears  fell  as  we  gazed  our 
last  on  London  from  the  train  that  bore  us  toward  old 
and  unique  Oxford. 

OXFORD  AND  HOME 

Oxford,  England,  August  4,  1903. 

Our  Republican  trip  in  England  is  ended  and  we 
are  now  on  one  of  our  own,  alone,  in  the  Shakespeare 
region.  The  train  pulls  into  Oxford  in  the  rain.  The 
platform  is  crowded  with  people,  as  there  is  a  Uni- 
versity Extension  course  of  lectures  for  teachers  to  be 
given  and  they  are  coming  in  great  numbers,  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  They  are  a  very  jolly,  talkative, 
wide-awake  set  of  people.  One  of  them  takes  charge 
of  us  to  take  us  to  see  the  Shelley  Memorial  and  asks 
eager  questions  about  the  way  "we  do  it"  in  America. 
No  wonder  people  rave  over  Oxford,  its  beauty,  its 
quaintness,  its  charms!  No  description  can  make  one 
who  has  never  been  there  see  how  lovely  it  all  is. 

We  have  a  guide,  all  to  ourselves,  who  walks  us 
about  ten  miles  between  12:80  and  5:30  but  we  are  all 
unconscious  of  fatigue.  There  is  too  much  to  enjoy. 


As  we  start  out  on  Broad  street  a  cross  in  the  mid- 
dle of  it  attracts  our  attention  and  we  find  it  marks 
the  spot  where  Ridley  and  Latirner  were  burned  at  the 
stake  in  1555  while  Cranmer,  who  met  the  same  fate 
on  the  same  spot  later,  looked  on  from  his  prison  near. 
We  look  at  the  beautiful  Martyr's  Cross  built  in  mem- 
ory of  the  three  and  go  into  the  church  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalene  to  see  the  old  prison  door.  An  American 
lady,  a  descendant  of  Latimer,  was  looking  at  it  in  a 
very  excited  frame  of  mind  over  her  ancestor,  as  we 
entered.  She  said  she  had  "never  realized  before  how 
horribly  he  had  been  treated."  We  find  that  Oxford 
has  23  colleges  and  halls,  each  under  its  own  manage- 
ment which  is  superintended  by  a  general  board,  and 
about  3,000  students;  the  school  year  is  three  terms  of 
8  weeks  from  June  to  October.  English  students  are 
not  so  hard  worked  as  the  men  in  American  universi- 
ties, having  more  vacations  and  less  work  under  pres- 
sure. 

We  go  to  Trinity  college,  which  graduated  Green, 
the  English  historian,  Cardinal  Newman,  Sir  William 
Pitt,  Brice,  Freeman,  Herschel.  It  is,  as  are  all  the 
colleges,  built  on  four  sides  of  a  beautiful  quadrangle 
with  lovely,  dark  green  English  sward,  ivy  covering 
all  the  walls  and  flowers  blooming  at  their  base.  Its 
chapel  has  some  most  exquisitely  carved  flowers  in 
wood  by  Gibbons  adorning  its  altar  walls  and  rail.  The 
dining  hall,  where  all  students  must  dine,  has  very 
heavy  oak  tables,  black  with  age,  and  long  benches 
without  backs  upon  which  to  sit  at  table.  The  ceiling 
is  of  the  same  black  oak.  The  lime  walk  has  most 
beautiful  old  limes  that  have  seen  many  a  generation 
of  young  men  come  and  go.  We  go  out  and  down 
the  street  past  "The  Heads  of  the  Caesars,"  as  the 
statues  in  front  of  the  Bodleian  library  are  called,  to 
the  Sheldonian  theater  where  degrees  are  conferred. 
But  the  day  before  Joseph  Choate,  our  ambassador  to 
England,  had  been  given  a  degree.  We  stand  upon 
the  same  place  in  which  he  stood  and  wonder  how  he 
felt.  The  dome  shaped  ceiling  has  very  fine  frescoes 
and  here  is  more  oak  carving.  The  place  seems  small 
indeed  for  convocation  and  all  stand  except  those  for- 
tunate enough  to  find  seats  in  the  gallery. 

The  Bodleian  Ibrary  has  a  curious  tower  showing 
five  styles  of  architecture,  Tuscon,  Doric,  Ionic,  Corin- 
thian, Composite.  It  was  built  in  1602  and  has  a 

52 


most  beautiful  old  carved  oak  ceiling,  a  fine  collection 
of  books  (many  very  old)  and  a  great  museum.  In 
its  picture  gallery  are  portraits  by  the  great  portrait 
painters  of  England.  Just  inside  the  entrance  door  is 
a  rough  old  oak  chair  made  from  the  timbers  of  "The 
Golden  Hind"  in  which  Sir  Francis  Drake  sailed  round 
the  world.  We  sat  in  it  to  rest  a  moment  and  be  de- 
voutly thankful  we  were  not  in  The  Hind. 

Here  is  a  fine  Holbein  of  Woolsey,  a  Van  Dyke's 
Charles  I,  and  five  oil  paintings  of  Luther  and  Eras- 
mus. The  Divinity  School,  despoiled  by  Cromwell  who 
used  it  as  a  stable,  has  an  oak  ceiling  carved  in  the 
same  exquisite  fan  traceries  that  make  Henry  the 
VII's  chapel  in  Westminster  so  beautiful.  Here 
Cranmer,  Latimer  and  Ridley  were  tried.  It  is  hard 
to  forgive  Cromwell  for  destroying  the  beautiful 
stained  glass  of  its  chapel  windows.  We  hope  he  has 
discovered,  by  this  time,  the  enormity  of  his  doings. 

We  look  with  great  interest  on  Heber's  Tree  which 
shadowed  his  window  in  Braseurse  college  and  go  to 
see  the  old  brazen  knocker  which  had  been  lost  for 
580  years  and  which  Oxford  bought  a  large  estate  to 
recover.  Its  chapel  is  unlike  the  others  in  that  it  has 
a  most  gorgeous  Byzantine  ceiling.  At  Lincoln  col- 
lege we  looked  with  great  interest  at  Wesley's  Rooms 
and  his  beautiful  sweet-pea  vine,  covering  half  of  one 
side  the  long  quadrangle  and  beautiful  with  its  soft- 
tinted,  fragrant  bloom. 

Exeter  chapel,  like  Sainte  Chapelle  in  Paris,  with 
its  queer,  stiff  Burne-Jones  tapestries,  designed  by 
Burne-Jones  and  designs  carried  out  by  Morris,  be- 
cause both  were  Exeter  men  showed  the  close  tie  be- 
tween the  college  and  its  graduates.  The  college 
brewery  with  its  great  vats  of  beer  was  rather  a  sur- 
prise for  us  though  we  should  have  known  that  Ox- 
ford makes  both  its  own  beer  and  its  own  (and  the 
world's)  Bibles. 

New  College  Chapel  has  a  fine  Reynolds'  window 
and  windows  by  Rubens'  pupils.  The  reredos  is  new, 
3b  fine  specimen  of  modern  wood  carving  and  extends 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  Beautiful  are  the  old  gardens 
of  this  college  which  enclose  part  of  the  old  city  wall 
built  in  1643  during  the  civil  war  and  younger  by  al- 
most 300  years  than  the  misnamed  New  College  which 
was  founded  in  1379.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  Eng- 
lish love  England  educated,  as  they  are,  with  all  the 

53 


years  of  English  history  walking  about  college  gar- 
dens and  walls?  St.  Peter's-in-the-East,  an  old  llth 
century  church  with  the  most  grotesque  gargoyles  is 
near  and  we  view  it  with  reverence. 

Madeline  chapel  with  its  lovely  tower  and  its  Ad- 
dison's  walk,  tree  bordered,  along  its  placid,  grassy 
meadows,  seems  so  beautiful  and  serene;  so  sure  of  it- 
self and  its  ways.  The  deer  graze  in  the  green  tree- 
crowded  college  park  and  the  gray  walls  shut  out  the 
rush  of  the  outer  world. 

At  Oriel  is  the  exquisite  Shelley  Memorial;  a  nude, 
snow-white,  drooping,  dead,  figure  with  the 
laurels  of  victory  falling  from  the  poor  dead  hand  and 
the  laurel  crown  fallen,  the  stars  looking  down  from 
the  blue  arch  of  the  sky  above  on  the  ending  of 
earth's  effort  for  fame.  No  description  could  do  jus- 
tice to  the  matchless  purity  and  beauty  of  it;  Its  pa- 
thos, its  hope,  the  splendid  quadrangle  of  Christ  col- 
lege, its  old  and  most  beautiful  chapel,  part  college, 
part  dathedral  with  its  Saxon,  Ncrman,  Early  Eng- 
lish architecture;  its  most  beautiful  stained  glass 
dropping  its  soft  colors  on  the  whiteness  of  its  group- 
ed shafts,  fill  us  with  delight. 

The  old  Broad  Walk  with  its  two  hundred  year  old 
trees,  the  old  college  kitchen  with  its  door  and  lock 
still  in  fine  condition  and  used  since  1525,  the  old 
Town  Tower  with  its  bell  that  closes  all  college  gates 
at  ten  o'clock;  the  grave  of  Amy  Robsart  in  St.  Mary, 
the  Virgin's  chapel,  all  waken  again  our  ghosts  of 
English  history.  We  sit,  in  the  waning  twilight  and 
listen  to  the  service  in  old  Christ  church  cathedral  and 
the  day  goes  out  in  splendor  as  the  sweet  voiced 
choir  boys  chant  the  most  impressive  service.  Too 
tired  to  feel  more  we  go  to  our  slumbers. 

In  the  morning  we  go  to  University  Extension  lec- 
ture, to  a  lecture  on  English,  talk  to  the  English 
teachers,  see  the  chained  Bible  of  1387  in  Merton 
chapel,  walk  Addison's  walk,  go  down  Broad  Walk 
to  Christ  church  meadows,  to  see  the  lovely  Isis  and 
its  over  arching  trees.  The  next  day  sees  us  leaving 
beautiful,  enchanting,  inspiring  Oxford  for  Warwick. 

At  Warwick  we  see  the  splendid  old  Warwick 
castle,  the  finest  of  the  medieval  English  castles,  with 
its  great  portcullis,  moat,  high  walls,  lovely  old  parks 
and  gardens  through  which  flows  the  Avon.  We  see 
that  part  of  the  castle  shown  to  visitors  and  Lady 

54 


Warwick  one  of  the  beauties  of  England  who  is  not  al- 
ways seen  by  them.  She  is  stately,  graceful,  aristo- 
cratic, gentle  with  the  presence  that  is  inherited  from 
centuries  of  rule.  She  is  evidently,  every  inch  a  lady. 
It  is  a  liberal  education  in  beauty  and  charm  to  have 
seen  such  an  one,  yet  many  an  American  woman  we 
have  seen  is  just  as  lovely,  but  no  American  woman 
we  ever  saw  had  such  a  presence. 

We  go,  one  most  glorious  day,  to  see  Kenilworth 
castle,  over  a  road  like  a  clean  city  street,  through 
a  country  green  and  fresh,  with  splendid  trees,  with 
hedge  rows  blooming  with  honeysuckle  and  jassamine 
and  glistening  hedges  of  holly  shutting  in  thatched 
cottages  with  roofs  coming  almost  to  the  ground.  A 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  old  ruins  gives  a  far  reaching 
view  over  a  green  tree  clad  country  to  dim  blue  hori- 
zon. The  old  moat  is  crowded  with  trees,  the  tilting 
yard  glitters  with  holly,  green  leaf  with  white  edge, 
or  yellow  edge.  What  a  splendid  place  this  must  have 
been  when  Queen  Elizabeth  came  in  state  with  a  re- 
splendent retinue  to  visit  it  for  ten  days! 

We  climb  about  in  Caesar's  Tower  with  Its  walls 
16  feet  thick  and  built  in  1100;  we  stand  in  the  little 
room  with  its  four  small  windows  which  Sir  Walter 
Scott  makes  Amy  Robsart's  prison;  we  look  at  the 
great  banqueting  hall  90  by  45  feet  where  Queen  Eliza- 
beth dined  with  Dudley.Earl  of  Leicester,  in  the  great- 
est splendor.  Probably  an  old  Roman  tower,  then  Sax- 
on, it  had  passed  through  its  centuries  of  history  to 
Its  present  condition,  an  ivy-clad,  grass-grown  beau- 
tiful, picturesque  old  ruin.  Within  its  walls  King 
John,  Henry  III,  Henry  IV,  V,  VI,  VII,  VIII  had  all 
sheltered  themselves.  From  it,  Henry  the  VII  start- 
ed on  that  campaign  that  finished  the  "Wars  of  the 
Roses."  Here  Edward  II  signed  his  abdication  before 
his  brutal  murder  at  Berkely  Castle.  The  beautiful 
Eleanor  Cobham,  Duchess  of  Gloucester,  gazed 
through  the  narrow  windows  of  her  prison  in  its  tow- 
er. Charles  the  First  visited  it  on  his  way  to  the 
battle  of  Edge  Hill.  Cromwell  gave  it  to  an  officer 
through  whom  it  came  to  its  present  owner  the  Earl 
of  Clarevelow.  A  most  fascinating  old  ruin  it  is, 
with  its  crowds  of  English  royalties  and  nobles, 
knights  and  yeomen  haunting  it. 

Next  day  we  see  St.  Mary's  church  with  its  fine 
chantry  and  carved  ceiling,  its  "lodge  chapel"  and 

55 


its  old  ducking  stool  which  the  lad  in  charge  explain- 
ed: "You  puts  the  loidy  (lady)  in  'ere,  then  works 
this  h'end,  so.  The  more  the  loidy  scolds  the  more 
you  ducks  'er." 

We  see  old  Leicester  Hospital  with  its  quaint  old 
spandriels  and  its  old  sergeant  who  tells  us  "From 
this  'ere  balcony  as  far  as  h'eye  can  reach  is  the 
Sharpshire  'ills."  English  lady  of  party,  tall  and  thin — 
"Ohhh!  Neow  just  fancy,  Charlie!"— to  her  small 
husband — "These  'ere  are  the  coats  of  h'armces  and 
'ere  the  haitch  (H)  and  h'ell  (L)  of  the  h'Earl  of 
Leicester  who  founded  the  'ospital  in  1300."  The  old 
garden,  the  little  low,  carved  oak  house  all  were 
quaintness,  itself.  A  touching  service  in  the  chapel 
with  the  old  soldiers  ended  our  visit  here. 

Next  day  sees  us  in  Stratford  on  Avon.  As  the 
train  comes  into  the  station  an  excited  lowan  says 
to  his  son  "Now,  my  son,  we'll  make  a  call  on  Shakes- 
peare." He  hurries  "son"  into  a  cab  and  off  they  go,  at 
a  gallop,  for  their  call  which,  we  fear,  will  prove  all 
too  short.  We  go  to  "The  Red  Lion  Inn,"  made  fa- 
mous by  Washington  Irving's  stay  in  it  while  he 
wrote  his  "Sketch  Book,"  and  arrive  at  it  only  to  find 
that  our  admiration  of  a  lifetime — Mary  Anderson  de 
JNavarro — had  left  but  half  an  hour  before.  She  had 
brought  her  priest  to  prove  to  him  that  such  a  man 
as  Shakespeare  had  really  lived;  and  he  had  been 
convinced.  We  drive  over  to  Anne  Hathaway's  Cot- 
tage and  find  it  the  little  low  thatched,  small-paned 
windowed  place  its  pictures  make  it.  It  stood  at  the 
end  of  its  little  garden  with  its  flowers  of  every  kind 
that  Shakespeare  ever  mentioned,  shut  in  by  its  green 
box  hedge,  sunning  itself  placidly  in  the  bright  Eng- 
lish sunshine.  A  dark  eyed,  red -cheeked  young  girl— 
a  descendant  of  Anne  Hathaway — with  soft  voice  and 
pleasant  manner  showed  us  the  old  room  with  its 
ceiling  of  Shakespeare's  time,  its  old  settle,  by  the 
fireplace,  in  which  he  may  have  sat  when  he  called— 
its  old  blue  china  belonging  to  Anne,  its  little  upper 
sloping  roofed  bedroom,  with  its  linen  spun  by  Anne. 
As  we  go  back  between  lovely  hedges  of  green  we 
meet  "Marie  Correlli,"  driving  a  span  of  fat  little 
ponies.  She  is  "short,  fat,  forty"  with  much  fluffy, 
flaxen  hair  and  bows  graciously  to  our  very  deferential 
greeting.  Shakespeare's  birthplace  comes  next.  Two 
little  flaxen -haired  lads,  six  or  seven  apparently,  burst 

56 


into  a  biography  of  Shakespeare  with  words  in  it  as 
long  as  themselves  and  repeat  it  for  each  penny 
given  them.  Two  others  trot  after  us  declaiming  "The 
quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained.  It  droppeth  like 
the  gentle  rain  from  Heaven,"  etc.  They  get  more 
pennies  and  much  laughter  from  the  amused  Amer- 
ican tourists  of  whom  30,000  annually  visit  the  place. 
The  little  rooms  look  exactly  like  the  pictures  we  have 
seen.  Under  the  window  of  the  little  back  room  grows 
rue  and  rosemary,  fit  emblems  of  the  great  poet's 
life — and  in  the  garden  back  of  it — all  the  flowers  of 
Shakespeare.  New  Place  where  30  years  of  this  great 
life  were  past;  the  grammar  school  in  which  the  boy- 
poet  was  educated;  the  theater  built  as  his  memorial 
from  which  a  lovely  view  of  the  winding  Avon  and 
the  Shakespeare  church  shows,  all  leave  us  in  a  state 
of  bliss.  We  chat  with  an  old  couple — sixty  and  sixty- 
five — who  have  come  all  the  way  from  Australia  to 
see  the  home  of  their  favorite  author.  Such  nice  old 
people  as  they  are!  The  sky  is  crimson  with  the 
sunset  reflected  in  the  placid  Avon  and  we  go  to  our 
greatly  needed  rest. 

The  next  morning  being  Sabbath  we  go  to  ser- 
vice in  Holy  Trinity  church  where  Shakespeare  and 
his  family  are  buried.  Holy  Trinity  is  of  the  time  of 
Edward  VI  and  stands  amidst  its  old  trees  at  the 
end  of  a  walk  between  old  limes,  past  the  old  grave- 
stones. The  Avon  glides  near  it  and  birds  call  in  the 
trees.  It  is  all  very  peaceful  and  old.  The  interior  is 
of  all  styles  of  architecture  and  the  light  falls  across 
the  chancel  upon  Shakespeare's  bust  and  tomb 
through  beautiful  stained  glass.  The  morning  rays 
come  through  the  window  given  by  Americans. 

A  clatter  of  feet!  All  the  children  of  the  Sabbath 
school  troop  in,  boys  on  one  side,  girls  on  the  other; 
and  at  a  given  signal,  drop  upon  their  knees  in  what 
is  supposed  to  be  prayer;  but,  for  some  of  the  boys,  at 
least,  is  a  pinching  game.  These  children  must  "be 
good,"  with  a  vengeance  for  they  go  to  Sabbath  school 
from  9  to  11  and  to  church  from  11  to  12:30.  The  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  congregation  was  an  Amer- 
ican lady  in  black  who  stood  superbly  and  sang  a 
beautiful,  sweet  alto.  In  the  cfeoir  was  a  little  fair- 
haired,  blue-eyed  lad,  whose  yellow  curls  were  lighted 

67 


by  a  rose  colored  ray  from  the  window  above  him 
and  his  up-raised  face  as  he  sang  like  an  estatic  bird, 
looked  like  one  of  Van  Dyke's  angels. 

"God  Save  the  King"  was  the  first  hymn  number 
and  it  was  very  evident  that  the  English  people  pres- 
ent didn't  know  the  words.  It  took  American  tourists 
fresh  from  crossing  in  English  vessels  to  carry  it  to  a 
triumphant  conclusion.  Then  dame  the  old  well  known 
lovely  service  and  a  great  wave  of  home-sickness 
surged  over  us.  We  knew  for  five  homesick  moments 
the  meaning  of  the  Hebrew  lament:  "How  can  we 
sing  the  songs  of  the  Lord  in  a  strange  land?"  In 
the  afternoon  we  go  for  a  long  drive  with  the  Per- 
sons of  Pittsburg,  through  the  beautiful  country 
about  Stratford,  walk  across  Charlcote  Park, 
where  Shakespeare  got  into  trouble  about 
the  deer,  down  its  mile-long  avenue  of 
old  lime  trees,  over  a  stile  to  our  carriage  again. 
Under  the  evening  sky,  we  walk  across  the  fields  to 
Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage  and  as  we  stroll  past  it 
in  the  gloaming  it  seems  the  form  of  Shakespeare 
walks  the  fragrant  old  garden  paths  with  beautiful 
Anne.  Morning  gives  us  a  view  of  the  old  John  Har- 
vard House  where  the  idea  of  our  American  flag  orig- 
inated and  afternoon  sees  us  in  Old  Chester,  Quaint, 
beautiful  Old  Chester  with  its  ancient  walls,  its  lovely 
cathedral,  its  "rows,"  its  "God's  Providence  House," 
its  Derby  House,  old  as  the  Roman  occupation,  with 
the  lovely  Dee  running  through  it,  one  could  spend 
delightful  months  studying  it.  Space  forbids  us  say- 
ing more.  Then  August  13  sees  us  aboard  the  Common- 
wealth for  our  homeward  trip  and  the  opalescent,  soft 
blue-hazed  shores  of  England  fade  from  our  view. 
Friday  finds  us  in  an  awful  wind  wihch  puts  every- 
body flat  on  his  back  and  evokes  the  following  poetic 
sentiments'  from  Mrs.  Francelia  Boynton  of  Chicago, 
Illinois: 


Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 
I  lay  me  down— but  not  to  sleep. 
I  long  to  turn  me  inside  out — 
I  sigh  to  be  a  water  spout. 
O,  fle!  Who  says  'tis  peaceful  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep? 


Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 
Just  try  my  crib  and  if  it  fits, 
'Tis  thine!  I'll  take  my  bed  and  walk, 
This  cracked  up  "cradle"  is  all  talk. 
My  poem's  writ.    Fetch  pan  and  pail, 
This  horrid  "cradle's"  in  a  gale. 

We  found  our  fellow  passengers  most  interesting; 
ministers,  doctors,  lawyers,  stenographers,  Mormon 
missionaries,  English  dancers  for  Hanlon's  "Superba," 
people  who  had  traveled  much  and  little.  The  sea 
was  rough  most  of  the  time  but  sometimes  its  shim- 
mering light  stretched  to  the  sharp  edge  of  "the 
saucer's  rim"  and  it  was  like  a  great  opal.  Beautiful 
beyond  thought  is  the  eternal  sea  in  its  bright  moods. 
Day  followed  day  until  a  stir  of  excitement  told  that 
land  was  near  and  at  9  o'clock  of  August  20  the  stars 
and  stripes  floated  in  the  still-lighted  sky.  Cheer 
after  cheer  met  its  glories  and  we  knew  the  rapture 
of  Wagner's  splendid  chorus,  "Again,  Dear  Home,  We 
With  Rapture  Behold  Thee." 

After  all,  though  our  friends  and  our  friends' 
friends  had  given  us  the  "glory  and  beauty  of  the 
world"  to  see,  nothing  is  so  heart-satisfying  as  one's 
own  land,  the  home  of  the  greatest  nation  upon  which 
the  sun  has  yet  shone.  We  breath  Tiny  Tim's  prayer 
upon  it,  "God  bless  us,  every  one." 


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